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Dorothy looked at the pretty , shimmering silks, half -wistfully — Page 14 




Thy 

Friend Dorothy 


By 

Amy E. Blanchard 

Author of 

“Two Girls,” “ Taking a Stand,” “A Dear Little Girl,” etc. 

Illustrated by 

IDA WAUGH 


PHILADELPHIA 
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 
1898 



Copyright by 

GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 
1898 


COPIES RECEIVED. 



wwi V 'b - 


Contents 


I 

A Question of Speech 

... 7 

II 

Rioting .... 

. . . 22 

III 

John Winterthorn . 

... 38 

IV 

On Shipboard 

53 

V 

A Second Flight 

. . . 70 

VI 

Upland .... 

86 

VII 

In the Woods 

. . . 103 

VIII 

The Governor’s Arrival 

. . . 121 

IX 

John’s Quest .... 

• 137 

X 

News from Home 

. 155 

XI 

How Jasper Found a Way 

. . . 171 

XII 

A Wedding Party 

. 186 

XIII 

The Son of a Chief 

, . . 202 

XIV 

The Rightful Heir 

. . . 216 

XV 

Second Fiddle 

. . . 232 

XVI 

A Sober Suitor . 

. . . 246 

XVII 

Sorrowing .... 

. . . 263 

XVIII 

Days of Waiting 

. 277 

XIX 

Surprises .... 

. . . 291 

XX 

How it was Settled 

306 


« 



List of Illustrations 


PAGE 

Dorothy looked at the pretty, shimmering silks, 

half-wistfully .... Frontispiece 

Dorothy stood with clasped hands before an old 

SUN-DIAL 48 

Joseph drew forth a small bark canoe from among 

THE WEEDS, AND, HELPING DOROTHY INTO IT, PAD- 
DLED ACROSS 1 1 7 

“Boys! boys!” she cried, “ what is this ? ” . 207 

Dolly looked down and twisted the long stem of 
A flower around her finger .... 242 



CHAPTER I 

A QUESTION OF SPEECH 

It was a bright, spring morning in the year 
1682. Sweeps of sward in front of a fine old 
house near the city of Bristol, in old England, 
showed golden green in the sunlight. The 
hedgerows were white with blossoming, and 
the gardens and hillsides were brave with the 
delicate hues of spring flowers. In the long 
avenue, the wind rustled softly through the tall 
trees, in whose tops birds were singing blithely. 
It was a day for joyous content and perfect 
peace ; but neither joyousness nor peace per- 
vaded the home of Dorothy James. 

It was a slim little girl who stood before 
Squire Humphrey, a demure and quiet little 
maid, who, with eyes cast down and meekly 
folded hands, listened to the tirade which was 
being poured forth by her irate uncle. 




8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Thee me, and thou me, will you ? ” con- 
cluded the angry man. “ I’ll have none of it ; 
do you hear ? — none of it. Let me but once 
hear you answer me in such speech, and ’twill 
go hardly with you ; aye, and your meek 
mother. A pretty bequest for my brother to 
leave ; a fanatical, shaking Quakeress, and her 
obstinate child. Go, now, Dorothy James, and 
let us hear no more thees and thous under this 
roof.” And the Squire brought his stout stick 
down with a thump on the floor. Dorothy turned 
and left the room. A big, wainscoted breakfast 
room it was, where her uncle was wont to sit of 
mornings. He was a determined, imperious 
person, this Squire James, of Humphrey’s Hall, 
and his word was law. Yet some of the same 
determination was part of his niece’s heritage. 
And as the girl turned into the long alley which 
led toward the summer house, there was a set 
look about the tender, young mouth which 
reminded one of the man who had just spoken 
so determinedly. 

Down past the summer house, and on 
toward the lodge, went Dorothy, not pausing 
to note the bloom of hawthorne, nor the carol 
of birds. She held her hands tightly clasped, 
and every now and then she lifted her eyes to 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


9 


the sky. At the gate of the lodge she paused, 
and gazed down the road. Soon a look of 
childish pleasure came into her face, and she 
called, “ Rhoda, here comes mother.” 

A stout woman bustled out. “ Faith, Mis- 
tress Dorothy, your mother starts early, and ’tis 
a shame she foots it. Why does she so ? ” 

The girl made no reply, but ran out and 
grasped the hand of the lady, who had now 
nearly reached the gate. 

“ Oh, mother, mother ! I thought thou wast, 
perhaps, set upon, or that some ill had befallen 
thee.” 

The mother smiled down at the little maid. 
“ No, Dorothy, I was but detained in listening 
to good words from one who spoke well. 
Friends would fain have had me tarry, but I 
was anxious to see my daughter.” 

“And was there a good meeting? ” 

“ A sweet and precious one ! There was 
one Alexander Parker, a very tender man, who 
spoke lovingly, but — ,” and the mother sighed. 
" It is a grievous season, daughter, and I fear 
me much that we shall be called upon to 
endure more pains for the faith’s sake.” 

“ Oh, mother ! and art thou in danger ? ” 
“Friends who attend meeting are all in 


10 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


danger ; many have been hurried to the gaol, or 
exposed to riotous insolence.” 

“ Oh, mother — and thou ?” 

“ The trouble may be from the world and 
the world’s spirit, but the spirit within is at 
peace. I heard much to cause me to com- 
mune with myself. John Dunn gave me a most 
interesting pamphlet, which treats of the new 
colony which William Penn calls his Holy Experi- 
ment. ’Tis of exceeding interest to me, so 
much so that friends asked what was upon me, 
and I told them, if so be the Lord move me, I 
may see it my duty to follow friends overseas.” 

“ And leave England forever ?” 

‘ If so be it is the voice of the Spirit which 
calls. Dorothy child,” — the mother stopped 
suddenly and looked in the child’s face. “ Thou 
art steadfast ?” 

“Oh, mother, I am. Uncle did hardly 
berate me, this very morning, for saying thee 
and thou to him, but I will suffer, mother — for 
thee.” 

“ Nay, nay ; not lor me, Dorothy. Thy 
testimony must be from the purity of thine own 
conviction. Thou hast heard the voice of the 
Spirit, so heed it.” Dorothy was silent, but 
she clasped her mother’s hand even more 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


ii 


closely, and presently asked, “ When is there 
another meeting?” 

“ On fourth day next.” 

By this time they had entered the lofty 
hall, and Dorothy’s mother proceeded directly 
to the room where her brother-in-law still sat. 

“ So, mistress,” was his greeting, “you are 
back again, and whither have you been over 
night ? Methinks you would do more credit to 
your husband’s name did you stay within your 
home, instead of mixing with a miscreant rabble. 
I command you to have done with these stir- 
rings abroad. I hear none too good reports of 
the shaking Quakers. ’Tis time, Mistress 
Hester, that you cut loose from such a rabble ; 
or, if you must sully your fair name, leave your 
child unsmutted. Already she brings your 
mouthings and foolish phrasings to me. Next 
you will become a by-word, and will be immod- 
estly pushing yourself into public sight, as 
some of those wretched women in the city are 
doing with their preachments.” Again the 
staff came down with a thump on the bare 
wood floor. “ Speak up, now ! Is it bide at 
home like an honest gentlewoman, or is it 
follow your wretched crew of shaking Quakers? 
Yes or No ?” 


12 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“I must follow my conscience, Humphrey, and 
the Spirit leads more truly than does the world.” 

“ An’ your conscience or your spirit, or what- 
ever you choose to call it, bids you disgrace 
your husband’s name ; bids you deny your child 
her heritage ; seeks to set you up as a dreamer 
of dreams, and a woman who immodestly 
speaks in public — a sweet and gracious spirit 
truly ! — an evil and malignant one, beshrew 
me, if ’tis not ! Now, listen to me, mistress, 
once you speak in public meetings ; once you 
allow your daughter to be exposed to the 
rabble, and I wash my hands of you. Into 
this house you enter no more. Dorothy 
shall have her own, but you have no part nor 
parcel in her belongings.” 

The woman stood pale and silent for a 
moment. “And if Dorothy choose the straight 
and narrow way ?” she then said. 

“ If by that you mean if the unsophisticated 
little lass shall try to follow you, I, as her 
guardian, shall prevent it. She is too young to 
form correct judgments.” 

“ But if she persist, when she is come to 
years of discretion ?” 

“Then,” the staff emphasized each word, 
“ she goes, too ; you are both cast off. Now you 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


13 


know what to expect, the pair of you. Send 
Margery to me. I wish to speak to her.” 

This dismissal was accepted, and mother 
and daughter withdrew. 

“ Oh, mother,” whispered Dorothy, when 
they were out of hearing, “what shall we do ?” 

“We must wait the Lord’s will in the 
matter, my daughter, and whatsoever way the 
Spirit leads, we must follow.” 

“ But, mother, I shall not leave thee. I 
could not.” 

Hester James shook her head. “ Say not 
so with such vehemence, Dorothy. It is the 
blind affections which speak. Let it be the 
inner voice which commands.” 

At this moment a maid-servant approached. 
“ Your uncle wishes to see you, Miss Dorothy.” 

The girl looked up at her mother. “ Go, 
my child !” 

Dorothy followed the servant to an upper 
room, where her uncle sat, a pile of rich stuffs 
on a bench before him. An heavy oaken chest 
stood open, and from it Margery, the old house- 
keeper, was lifting more brocades and silken 
fabrics. 

“Here, Dorothy,” said the Squire, “you 
are old enough to choose yourself a gown for a 


14 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


May-day frolic — the little Lady Beatrice Lowe 
has sent you an invitation to her May-pole, and 
I wish you to go.” 

Dorothy looked at the pretty, shimmering 
silks, half-wistfully, but she said, “ I am not of 
the world’s people, uncle.” 

“Out upon you for such a foolish speech, 
not of the world’s people ; forsooth ! and you 
a daughter of Marmaduke James of Hum- 
phrey’s Hall, and what are you, pray ?” 

“ A Friend.” 

“ A Friend ! And whose friend ? If you 
mean that wretched set called Quakers, they 
are no friends of yours or mine. Come, you 
must get that maggot out of your brain, and 
see if you and 1 cannot rid your poor, phantasy- 
stricken mother of her foolish fancies.” 

“ Oh, uncle, I believe it to be a truth my 
mother has found.” 

“ You believe ? What matter what a chit 
like you believes. ’Tis all a seven days’ wonder, 
a mere frenzy of the moment. You are too 
sensible a lass to be carried away by such follies. 
Put such thoughts from you, and come here ; 
see what gay costumes we have for your choos- 
ings. They were your grandmother’s, and well 
she knew how to carry them off.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


15 

“ I cannot choose them, uncle ; I am bidden 
to forsake gay apparel.” 

“ And who has a better right to bid than 
your guardian ? You forget yourself, Dorothy, 
when you set yourself up and declare any one's 
right over mine.” 

It was Squire James' intention to be very 
gentle and amiable to his niece, to win her in 
that way to a different way of thinking. He 
did not doubt that all of this fervor was but a 
flash in the pan, and that the persistence was 
but contrariness. 

“ Enough of this, Dorothy,” he said, more 
sharply. “ Such folly ! to set your wishes 
against mine, for a mere freak. I am too indul- 
gent, I fear. Come, come, your old uncle has 
not treated you badly, has he, in all these years ? 

“ Far from it.” 

“And you will not yield at once to my 
desires, when, after all, 'tis but a concern for 
your pleasure. Fie, Dorothy ! ” 

“ I cannot, uncle.” 

“ Then, mistress, we’ll see,” spoke out the 
old man in sudden rage. “ Since you are dis- 
posed to be a disobedient, wilful child, instead 
of a loving and discreet maiden, we’ll see what 
best becomes you ;” and, seizing the girl by the 


16 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

arm, he hobbled hurriedly across the floor and 
thrust her into an adjoining room, closing and 
bolting the door, Dorothy making not the 
slightest resistance. It was part of her mother’s 
creed, which she had adopted as her own, to 
endure silently. 

All her life Dorothy had dwelt under her 
uncle’s roof. Ever since the death of her 
father, which had occurred when the girl was 
but six years old. She remembered well this 
handsome, courtly father, and how sad a blow 
his death had been to her mother. Yet, for the 
past two years, the widow had spoken of her 
loss with a resignation she had never shown 
before, and this was since she had heard at the 
house of one of her relatives the words of one 
George Fox, and now she had become a fol- 
lower of the comparatively new sect, first 
called Quakers by Justice Bennet, of Derby, 
who bestowed the term in derision, because Fox 
had bidden his hearers tremble at his words. 

The home at Humphrey’s Hall had been a 
pleasant and a happy one for the little girl, 
until this time of her mother’s new interest. 
Squire James was a man of strong prejudices 
and haughty bearing, but he was very fond of 
his little niece, his youngest brother’s child, and 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


1 7 


the girl had been accorded many privileges and 
given many pleasures. 

At first the goings and comings of her 
mother to and from the Friends’ meetings in 
Bristol had concerned Dorothy very little, but 
anything which made so deep an impress upon 
her beloved mother, was sure to affect the girl 
sooner or later, and she begged to go to the 
meetings. It was but lately that she had taken 
up the phraseology of the sect, and what at 
first her uncle regarded simply as a whim, was 
now becoming so set a measure as to require, 
the old man thought, extreme treatment. 

After hearing the bolt slipped, Dorothy 
quietly waited for further developments. The 
room into which she had been thrust was a 
small one, having one casement window, which 
opened out upon a stretch of green lawn. 
Dorothy could see the lodge, and a bit of wood- 
land from it, with glimpses of the Avon ; so she 
perched herself upon the broad window ledge 
to wait patiently for what should come next. 
She had much to think about. She wondered 
if she did secretly yearn for the festivities to 
which Lady Beatrice Lowe had invited her. She 
was only a little girl, although serious things 

had weighed her down of late, it is true. She 
2 


18 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

had gone often enough to the meetings to have 
heard mirth, amusement, beauty and pleasure 
decried, and her mother’s example of wearing 
quiet attire, with no ornaments, she had taken 
to heart. It was, indeed, her loyalty to her 
mother which chiefly moved her to deny her 
uncle his desire regarding the May party, and 
the girl of fourteen was meeting the man of 
sixty with a spirit of equal determination. It 
was that she wished to believe in the Quaker 
creeds, because they were her mother’s, and 
she was ready to throw herself heart and soul 
into a defence of whatever her mother made an 
issue. 

It was old Margery who at last appeared at 
the door and unbarred it. She brought the 
girl’s mid-day meal, and set it down near her. 

“Thank thee, Margery, ’’said Dorothy, gently. 

The old woman leaned forward and touched 
her with a trembling, shriveled finger. “ Why 
don’t you please him, mistress ?” she said. 
“ ’Tis but a little to do, and you are all he has 
left.” 

“ Dost thou mean my uncle ? I would then 
be arrayed against my mother.” 

“ Oh, no ; your good mother must soon 
turn back to her old ways. Why, mistress, the 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


19 


justices are determined to break up these meet- 
ings. More and more do we hear of disturb- 
ance, and the Quakers are right mercilessly 
set upon. It is dangerous — dangerous for any 
one to be seen attending the meetings. They 
will soon be compelled to give them up.” 

Dorothy looked troubled. She knew that 
threats and punishments were increasing in the 
city of Bristol. “ I am fain to believe it, Mar- 
gery,” she replied. 

“ Then persuade your good mother to bide 
at home, at least for a time, till there is greater 
quiet. Entreat her to refrain from going to 
the city for a time.” 

“She will go, Margery, if so be the spirit 
calls her.” 

The old woman gave a little impatient shake 
of her head. “ Begging your pardon, miss, 
but it is folly. With their rude ways, they 
must make enemies. Not a one will take off 
his hat to his betters, nor drop a curtsey, or 
even say good morning, to the highest in the 
land. Tis an evil setting up of themselves 
toward those in high places.” 

“We are all alike in the sight of the Lord,” 
replied Dorothy. 

“That is well to say, mistress. But I know 


20 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


better. Even the apostles bade us be obedient 
to masters. I know my Bible, and it says, 

‘ Let servants count their own masters worthy 
of all honor.’ And am I to set myself up above 
my mistress ? No. I know my place. And 
I make my manners to my master, while he, in 
his turn, makes his to the king. And, bless us, 
mistress, ’twas but the other day I did hear of 
a Quaker woman run mad, tearing off her 
clothes in public, and making herself a spec- 
tacle in the street. And one in court, not long 
since — so Rhoda told me — did face the justice, 
and tell him his heart was rotten. The impu- 
dent blade ! And furthermore, he said he was 
full of hypocrisy to the brim. What wonder 
that the law scourged him ? Such talk to a 
justice on the bench.” 

“But,” spoke up Margery, “what he said 
was doubtless true.” 

“ And it may be true that one squints or has 
an evil eye, must then the world run about tell- 
ing him so? That is not good manners nor 
good morals. No, no, mistress, ’twill not do ; 
and to refuse to lift off one’s hat to any one, or 
to stand at taking oath in court, ’tis lawless, 
lawless, and stirs up naughty feeling. You’d 
best have done with birds of such feather.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


21 


Dorothy shook her head. The old woman 
had spoken from a feeling of deep concern, 
the girl reflected, and it might, indeed, be that 
dangers threatened all who clung to the Quaker 
beliefs. Nevertheless, she said, “No, no, good 
Margery, I cannot err against my conscience.’ ’ 
“And you’ll stay home, shut up?” 

“ Where is my mother ? ” 

“ She went home an hour ago.” 

“ Knew she of my state? ” 

“Yes, she but looked wishful when I told 
her ; but to Bristol she went. Come, now, I’ll 
tell your uncle that you are ready to look at the 
pretty gowns we had out.” 

“No, no ; here I stay till I am released by 
his will without word of concession from me. 
’Tis no use wasting words, Margery ; I under- 
stand thy good-will toward me. Thou hast 
always been tenderly and lovingly disposed. I 
would thou couldst receive convincement.” 
Margery turned sorrowfully toward the door, 
muttering : “ She was always as set a little 

mortal as one could find in a day’s journey. 
She comes honestly by it. Like her grand- 
mother in that is she.” 



CHAPTER II 

RIOTING 

The long day waned, and another servant 
brought supper and set it before the prisoner, 
and at night Margery came and told her it was 
her uncle’s order that she should sleep in her 
own bed-chamber. Dorothy obediently fol- 
lowed the old woman up the long hall and into 
her own room, where, again, she was made pris- 
oner. “ My mother ?” she said, as Margery 
turned to leave her. “ She has not returned. 0 

The evening of the second day found the 
little maid still confined behind barred doors. 
She had been glad of the privilege of remain- 
ing in her own room, but now she was becom 
ing anxious to see her mother. Nearly two 
whole days since she was parted from her. 
Surely, she must have returned. 

She was just wondering and wishing when 


22 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


23 


the thump ! thump ! of her uncle’s stick was 
heard along the hall. The sound was that 
which proclaimed an excited frame of mind, for 
Dorothy had become used to the heralding of 
her uncle’s various moods by means of his 
stick. Were he calm and dignified, the slow 
tap-tap announced the fact ; were he fretful or 
ill, it was a short, irregular, nervous rap ; 
angry or excited, the stick came down with a 
sharp, decided thump, — such as now was com- 
ing nearer and nearer. 

There was a sound of bolts withdrawn and 
a rap on the door. “Are you abed, Dorothy?” 

“ No, uncle. I am up and dressed.” 

The knob turned, and, looking up, Dorothy 
saw, by the flickering light of candle which her 
uncle held, that both anger and grief were visi- 
ble upon the strong, handsome face. 

“So!” he cried, “your lady mother has 
thrown back my words in my teeth, and has 
defied me deliberately and intentionally. My 
brother’s wife, a ranting, raging promoter of 
broils, an inciter of riots, a defier of law and 
order.” Dorothy stood up, with parted lips 
and fear-stricken heart. 

“ Yes,” continued the Squire ; “ a gracious 
and lovely dame is she who stirs up discord, 


24 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


and defames judges. It is well she is in the 
gaol ; that is less of a disgrace than the act 
which places her there.” 

“My mother in prison ?” faltered Dorothy. 

“Where she should be,” replied the old 
man, grimly. Then a softer look came over his 
face, and he held out his hands, “ Oh, my 
poor little child, you are orphaned, indeed !” 

But Dorothy shrank back and held her 
clasped hands tightly against her breast. 

Dorothy’s father had been to Squire James 
more like a son than a brother, for Humphrey, 
after two years coming of age, found himself 
the sole guardian of a baby boy, not four years 
old, whose parents had both died within a year, 
leaving, out of a family of nine, but these two : 
the eldest and youngest. The young man and 
the little boy had been devoted to each other, 
and, believing his brother, in the natural course 
of things, would become his heir, Humphrey 
James had never married, although there had 
been many rumors, more or less true, of his 
intentions in such directions. And when Mar- 
maduke brought home his pretty, gentle little 
bride, his brother had given her a warm wel- 
come. The first sorrow after this, which struck 
heavily both brothers, was the loss of a little 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


25 


son, Humphrey, whose coming had been 
hailed with joy. Two years later, Dorothy 
was born, and when, at last, the younger man 
was brought home from the hunting field, dead, 
it seemed for a time as if the elder one would 
never again lift his head. But when, after a 
time, he did walk further into the sunshine, it 
was with a halting tread ; and at fifty-five he 
was an old man, slightly paralyzed still. 

And now had come an added grief. The 
gentle, quiet little widow of Marmaduke James, 
who had yielded amiably to her brother-in-law’s 
opinions and commands, became a steadfast 
follower of George Fox, and suddenly dis- 
played a persistence and tenacity of purpose 
entirely surprising. The gentleness remained, 
but nothing moved her from her zealous fol- 
lowing of the Quakers. 

As Dorothy shrank back from her uncle, 
the man’s hands trembled more violently, and 
his broken accents followed up the appeal — 
“ Dorothy, Dorothy, my little child ! ” 

She stood with downcast eyes, but did 
not speak, and her uncle sank brokenly into a 
chair near the door. He looked a pitiful figure 
of grief, and the girl’s tender heart could not 
endure it. So she went up to him and laid 


26 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


her hand on his arm, looking wistfully at the 
bent head resting on the hands which clasped 
his stick. Presently his arm enfolded her. 
“ Poor little girl ; poor little lass! It is a sad 
day, Dorothy. If — if your father had lived, 
it would never have been.” 

“ Oh, uncle, would it not? Why? ” 

“ Because your mother would have had no 
need of vagaries where Marmaduke James 
was. She has sought a solace in these religious 
frenzies. Poor, distracted woman ! ” 

“ Ah, but uncle, it is truth. My mother 
believes it is truth.” 

“ Truth ! What is truth ? I tell you it is 
madness— madness from which I would fain 
protect you, my little maid. Your mother is 
distracted, I say — mad — frenzied. And small 
wonder. If I, a strong man, have been so 
shattered by the loss of that bright life, what 
must be expected of a poor, weak woman. It 
is sad — sad that such things must be.” 

“ But, uncle, all those who believe, who 
have received convincement, are not mad. 
They have not the cause to be bereft of reason 
that my mother has. What of William Penn, 
and Robert Barclay, and Nicholas More?” 

The staff was again grasped firmly, and 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


2 7 


came down with a thump. “ Even the best of 
men can sometimes be bewitched, and can be 
caught in the whirl of a zeal lor a moment. I 
tell you, child, there are false prophets, blind 
leaders of the blind. It cannot endure. Already 
the authorities find them a turbulent, law 
breaking, impudent rabble, who would set our 
kingdom all awry if allowed their way. I must 
keep my brother’s daughter safe within our 
gates.” The arm around the girl gave a little 
pressure to the slight figure, and Dorothy’s 
lips quivered. 

“ But my mother,” she said. “ She is in 
prison. Oh, uncle, my mother ! ” 

“ My brother’s wife. Marmaduke’s wife. 
I remember that. We’ll see, my lass, that she 
doesn’t tarry there long. I warrant one night’s 
taste of it will cure her folly. Now, go to bed 
like a good child, my sweeting. No one shall 
harm you or your poor mother while you stand 
by your old uncle.” And in another moment 
he had clumped out of the room. 

Poor little Dorothy spent many wakeful 
hours that night. Her uncle’s wrath had only 
made her persistently resolved to follow her 
mother’s teachings ; but the softer, gentler 
mood — the argumentative tone had made her a 


28 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


little doubtful, and she wondered if, after all, 
these followers of George Fox were right ; and 
it might be, as her uncle said, that her mother’s 
mind had become unbalanced by her husband’s 
death. But it was a very pale and mournful- 
eyed little girl who met her uncle at breakfast 
the next morning. 

“Tut! tut! this will not do. Fine weather, 
fine outlook, and so pale a maid! We must 
have you into a chaise, and have you out for an 
airing ! ” 

“ Whither, uncle ?” 

“Whither? To Bristol town. I’ll see what 
is to be done about that foolish little mother 
of yours. I’ve friends enough to win us her 
release. Come, bring a smile to those red lips. 
We’ll soon have you merry when this nonsense 
is over. I like not long faces on a pretty lass. 
’Tis out of keeping. Come, Dolly, my maid, 
we’ll be off.” And soon they were passing 
between sweet hedgerows, and before long 
entered the city of Bristol. “We’ll stop at 
Cousin Preston’s,” said the Squire, “ and I’ll 
leave you there. I like not to take you to 
courts and councils. Stay with Cousin Frances, 
and we’ll have your mother with you in a 
twinkling. Not so sober, my Dolly ; you must 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


29 


fain do as you are bid.” And Dorothy, with- 
out protest, was left at her cousin’s door. 

It was, however, a restless morning which 
she passed, despite the fact that these cousins 
did their utmost to show her kindness. Yet 
she felt their displeasure at her mother was 
great, and it hurt her much to see the eye- 
brows lifted, the half-sarcastic smile and the 
open censure. 

Cousin Frances Preston was a widow, whose 
husband was own cousin to Marmaduke and 
Humphrey James ; her son, indeed, was the 
heir of Humphrey Hall, which, being an 
entailed estate, would pass to Jasper at the 
death of the present owner. A nice boy was 
Jasper, always a sturdy defender of his second 
cousin, Dorothy, and when his grandmother, 
with a smile of amused tolerance, asked Dor- 
othy if she, too, meant to be a Quaker, Jasper 
spoke up, “No matter what else she means to 
be, she’ll be a good daughter; that I well know.” 
And Dorothy shot him a grateful look. The 
question of her being a dutiful daughter had 
heretofore been less weighty than that of her 
being a dutiful niece, it seemed. 

High noon found her uncle still absent, and 
a growing fear possessed the girl that her 


30 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


mother’s release was more difficult to obtain 
than at first appeared. But at last the familiar 
sound of the sturdy stick was heard, and Doro- 
thy hurried out to meet the Squire, whose face 
at once showed annoyance and chagrin. “A 
pest on these puling varlets,” he cried. “ Obsti- 
nate donkeys, that have taught a simple woman 
that dogged stubborness is religion ! Not a 
step will your mother budge, though I held the 
order in my hand.” 

“But why, cousin, why?” spoke up Mis- 
tress Preston. 

“ Because, forsooth, she must decline to 
promise she will not repeat the offence. Say 
the justices, an’ if she will but say she speaks 
no more in public, ’tis enough ; but not a 
promise will she give. Easy enough ’tis, too, 
that she is let off, when whippings are plentiful 
for such as follow so scurvy a crowd ; but ’tis 
her first offence, say they, and — she is the 
widow of Marmaduke James. Well, I am 
through with the vile business. I like not a 
mulish woman.” 

“ Whenever was Hester James mulish 
before?” cried Mistress Preston. “’Tis not 
her habit, cousin.” 

“ No, my fair Frances, nor would it be, save 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 31 

for these insane leaders, who have scattered 
her wits.” 

“ And did you not so tell the justices ? ” 

“ Aye, did I ; but on such pleas, say they, 
all could be liberated.” 

“Then, say I, a mad house for the whole 
crew.” 

“ Aye, ’were fittest. But since Hester 
desires a stinking prison more than a sweet 
home, let her lie there. Come, Dorothy, we’ll 
get back.” 

But no Dorothy was to be seen. At the 
word of her mother’s continued imprisonment, 
she had fled into the street, and was now walk- 
ing swiftly toward a house where she knew 
meetings were held. Some friend, she conject- 
ured, would help her to find her mother, and 
perhaps tell her how release was to be won. 
She reasoned that her uncle had not, perhaps, 
given sufficient concern to it, that he had 
joined his friends in censuring her, and that a 
daughter’s entreaties would serve better than 
those of any one else. 

She had not reached the place of her desti- 
nation when she met one of the women who, 
she knew, was one of the foremost of the 
Bristol meeting. “ Ah, Rachel Townsend,” 


32 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


cried the girl, “ Hast thou seen my mother ? 
Canst thou tell me of her ? ” 

“ Thy mother ! Oh, ’tis Hester James’s 
daughter. My child, she suffers for conscience 
sake, with others who discern the truth. Thou 
hast heard how many are being persecuted for 
righteousness’ sake. Our meetings show sadly 
the lack of friends who were wont to bear 
testimony. Even now my heart is cast down 
for them.” Then she raised her voice. “ But 
woe ! woe ! woe to the destroyer ! I see by 
faith the righteous to triumph. I see the chains 
rent asunder, the voice of the Lord causing 
the earth to tremble. Woe ! woe to those 
who raven the innocent !” 

Her voice rose higher and higher, and she 
lifted her arms above her head, standing as 
if transfixed. Then she burst forth again. “ Be- 
ware ! beware ! ye that work abominations.” 

Presently there came a rush of feet, a 
clamor of voices, and a noisy rabble swept 
around the corner. “ Here’s more of them ! 
At them, sirs ! ” came from the ringleader, and 
in an instant Dorothy and her companion were 
surrounded. Hoarse cries, invectives, insults 
were hurled at them. “We’ll make them 
quake,” cried one bold fellow. “ Here, my 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


33 


lass, take this for the one cheek, and then I’ll 
take the other.” And he bent his face close to 
Dorothy’s. 

But in another instant a staggering blow 
sent him sprawling. “ Run, Dorothy, run into 
the first house,” cried a familiar voice. But 
Dorothy hesitated, for Rachel Townsend stood 
her ground, buffeted, jeered at, mocked and 
set upon though she was. 

“ Hurry ! hurry !” cried her defender, who 
was none less than her cousin, Jasper. “ Here, 
boys, you know me. I’m no Quaker. Make 
way, for my cousin and I wish to pass,” and, 
taking Dorothy by the arm, he made a dash 
through the crowd, and the roysterers, think- 
ing they had, perhaps, made a mistake, were 
content to let them go, and wreaked their 
mischief on the woman in their midst. 

More especially were they willing to do 
this, for there appeared on the outskirts of the 
crowd another woman, who, bearing a pitcher 
in her hand, dashed it to the ground, crying : 
“ Thus shall the Lord’s enemies be dashed to 
pieces.” 

A shout went up, which rang in the ears of 
the girl, hurried down a side street by her 
cousin. 

3 


34 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“Why did you go, Dolly ?” he asked, when 
they were safe. 

“ To find my mother, Jasper ; I was moved 
to find friends who might help me.” 

“Well, you were moved in the wrong 
direction. Your uncle will be sadly fretted that 
you have done this.” 

“ But how didst thou find me?” 

“ Bless us ! She takes to the theeing and 
thouing as naturally as a duck to water. Why, 
Dolly ! I guessed you’d be hunting up your 
mother or her friends, and I knew their haunts, 
so I ran after you. Now, come, we’ll go back 
home.” 

But Dorothy stood still. “ ’Twas my mother 
I was seeking, Jasper. Said I not so ?” 

“ Yes, but you won’t find her in the middle 
of the streets. I’m sorry enough that so it is.” 
He looked down at the girl, and saw two big 
tears standing in her blue eyes. 

“There, Dolly, don’t cry. We’ll go hunt 
up the justices ourselves, and perhaps we can 
win an order from them for your mother. Yet, 
methinks, had she cared for you, as you for her, 
she would have given the promise.” 

“ Nay, Jasper, said not our Lord to forsake 
all and follow Him ?” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


35 


Jasper bit his lip. It was evident he thought 
that the mother’s duty lay nearer home. “Well, 
well, we’ll find the justice and hear him. 
By my faith, they’re at it again. What’s this 
coming ? The Quakers are out in force to-day. 
What’s the trouble, Will ?” he accosted a lad 
passing by. 

“ ’Tis one of those shrieking Quakers, 
Jasper. He set a white sheet about him, and 
carried a lantern into a Papist church, crying, 

‘ Light for darkness !’ and they hustled him 
out at a lively pace, and are beating him with 
staves. The town is fair mad with the one or 
the other, the rabble, which the law encourages 
in the onslaughts on the Quakers, or the 
Quakers in their foolish performances ; but, save 
for their outlandish freaks, and much very plain 
and rather offensive speaking, these Quakers 
seem an inoffensive set.” 

“ They certainly do not hesitate to abuse 
with their tongues, however quiet they keep 
their hands,” returned Jasper. “ I can fancy 
our justices are not well pleased at being 
rebuked in very open terms by prisoners 
brought before them for disorderly conduct.” 

“ Truth it is, they are not ; ” and the young 
man passed on. 


36 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“I tell you, Dorothy,” said Jasper, “I am 
thinking perhaps I can do better alone. I fear 
your plain speech may do our cause no good. 
I’ll take you home, and there you’ll bide till I 
come back, and I’ll not come so long as I can 
get a word with those in power.” 

Dorothy hesitated. She longed for her 
mother, but she felt that perhaps she ought not 
to yield to Jasper’s suggestion. Yet, after all, 
she was only a little girl, and it might be that 
it was not given her to chide. She might, per- 
haps, wisely leave that to her elders. And so 
she allowed herself to be led back to her 
cousin’s house, where she learned that her 
uncle had gone, and had left word that she 
should remain till he should come or send for 
her. 

“The child’s not to be blamed for feeling 
distraught after her mother,” he said, “and I 
am not wroth at her. I feel ill at ease — ill at 
ease over these matters.” 

“ But you must keep your temper,” returned 
Mistress Preston. “ So you must, Humphrey, 
or perhaps,” she added, with a laugh, “ I should 
say, you would best get rid of your temper as 
quickly as you can, for, from what I hear, you 
have an over goodly share of it.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


37 


“ Fie ! Frances, fie ! to so chaff an old man.” 

“ Old ! ’Tis not years make you old, 
cousin.” 

“ And what then ? ” 

“ ’Tis your willing it so. Are you older 
than Captain Henly ? Not a whit, I’ll bargain.” 

“ True, fair Mistress Preston. You have an 
observing eye. Captain Geoffrey and I were 
boys together, and, if I mistake not, he wore 
his christening robe before mine was thought of.” 
And the Squire drew himself up, and bowed gal- 
lantly, as he and his staff reached the door. 
Mistress Preston looked after him with a smile. 
She had her own reasons for flattering the 
Squire. She was an astute woman, yet not an 
ill-natured one, and she felt very sorry for the 
little girl, who soon entered with so drooping a 
mien that it quite went to the woman’s heart. 






CHAPTER III 

JOHN WINTERTHORN 

Mistress Preston went forward to meet 
Dorothy, saying : “ Poor little lass ! this is a 
sorry time for you. Come, little one, tell me, 
hast thou seen Jasper ?” 

“Yes, cousin.” 

“ And he brought you home ?” 

“ He did, and has gone forth again. He 
bade me tell thee that thou shouldst not be 
concerned if he tarried long, for that he was on 
business bent.” 

“ For you, I doubt not. Jasper is ever 
knightly.” 

“ He promised he would do his best to gain 
my mother’s release.” 

“Poor little maid, sad, sad it is that you 
are so afflicted. Tell me, Dorothy, how hap- 
pened it your mother is so beset about these 

38 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


39 


Quakers. When did she come under this 
influence ?” 

“ ’Twas at my Cousin Hickman’s, I think. 
She was there one day, and heard a great 
preachment, which brought about convince- 
ment for many. She was one who found satis- 
faction, and since then she has been a Friend, 
and so am I.” 

“You?” the woman’s laugh rang out 
merrily. “Why, of course, you are what 
your mother is. So was I at your age what 
my mother was ; and if Mistress Hester turns 
Papist, Papist will you be ; and if Baptist, the 
same. I grant you that, little Dorothy. Now, 
tell me what did I hear you telling Bertha? 
There are wild blades about town who have 
used the occasion of this Quaker uproar to 
behave very loosely. I trust you saw naught 
of it. ’Tis not well for a young maid to 
venture forth alone.” 

“ I did see much rioting, ana I, myself, was 
set upon.” 

“ You ! Ah, and Jasper freed you ?” 

“Yes, I spoke to a Friend, one Rachel 
Townsend. She was moved to declare a 
prophecy, and I was with her.” 

“ An ill-moving for you. I have no 


AO 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


patience with these wretched disturbers of the 
peace, and to bring trouble on an innocent 
maid, who had gone forth alone. I trust she 
is well in gaol — ah, there, my lass, I forgot ; I 
had not meant to wound you, but I think she 
might have spared you her presence, if she 
meant to bring a wild rabble about her. Still, 
I confess these people are treated cruelly, 
whipped and driven and tortured to death. I 
like it not ; I like it not. But hark ! I think 
I hear Jasper. Let us see, Dorothy,” and, 
grasping the girl’s hand, she hurried down the 
hall to meet her son, who was advancing with 
Dorothy’s mother. 

“ Said I not I would do my best, coz ?” cried 
the lad. “You should have heard me argue 
down our good friend, the judge, mother, and 
he was so moved by my orating that he gave 
me the order forthwith. So, now, Dolly, you 
have your mother safe and sound.” 

But Dorothy scarce heard him ; her arms 
were around her mother’s neck, and she was 
sobbing out her too full heart on the shoulder 
of the released culprit, who whispered : “There, 
my little one ! There, my sweet, ’tis all right. 
Thy mother is with thee ; ’tis not a time for 
weeping, but rather for rejoicing. See, thou 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


4i 


hast not spoken to Jasper, nor thanked him for 
his kindness.” 

“Oh, Jasper, I do thank thee. I do,” Dor- 
othy exclaimed, “and I shall not forget thee. 
No, never, never !” and then she turned to her 
mother. “ Did they treat thee ill, mother?” 

“Nay, not beyond my endurance. I did but 
support the trial for a right, as thou knowest.” 

“ You will tarry with us over night, Hester,” 
said Mistress Preston. “ Humphrey allowed 
me to entertain Dorothy, and I am sure you 
will need a more comforting pillow than that 
you had last night.” 

Mrs. James smiled. “ Yes, Frances, I shall 
be glad of it,” she replied, simply ; and that 
night Dorothy went to sleep holding her 
mothers hand. 

It was the Squire’s special messenger who 
came early the next morning for Dorothy and 
her mother. John Winterthorn was Hum- 
phrey James’ foster-brother, and was employed 
by him in all matters of importance needing 
coolness and good judgment. A queer, one- 
sided sort of a nature was John’s ; he, himself, 
was a queer, one-sided sort of a man. Hard 
as a flint toward poachers, thieving urchins or 
trespassers, but tender as a child when it came 


42 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


to the question of a wounded bird or an ailing 
beast. He adored the Squire, and would 
cheerfully have given his life for him. With 
one eye an inch below the other, and his mouth 
drawn to one side by a weakness of the facial 
muscles, with which he was born, he looked 
like some fantastic mask, or an attempted like- 
ness, very much out of drawing, of his elder 
sister, Margery. He had always been devoted 
to Dorothy, although he snapped and snarled 
at her mother, for John was no respecter of 
persons, save that he gave the utmost reverence 
to the Squire, and valued the family honor 
above everything else. It was, therefore, a 
sour countenance that he turned toward Mis- 
tress James when they were on their way back 
to Humphrey’s Hall. 

“ An’ you’ll be disgracing the family, mis- 
tress, I hear. An’ my master like a father to 
you all these years. A sorry day when Master 
Marmaduke took to wife a loud-mouthed — ” 

“ Hush, John !” cried Dorothy, peremp- 
torily ; “’tis you who disgraces the family by 
such words.” 

Her mother laid a gentle hand upon her, 
although the warm blood had surged up to her 
pale cheek. “ Peace, my child, peace. Remem- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


43 


ber ’tis the part of a Friend not to answer 
hotly.” 

“ But, mother, am I to let a servant abuse 
you ?” 

John turned his distorted eye upon her. 
“ Have done, lass,” he said. “ I’ll ’tend to my 
manners when she ’tends to her duty. ’Tis of 
Squire Humphrey I’m thinking, and not the 
runners after George Fox.” 

“It is borne in upon me that thou, too, wilt 
become a follower of George Fox,” exclaimed 
Hester James, suddenly; “that thou wilt 
become so tender and loving as to receive the 
seed. Thus wilt thou cast off the robe of pre- 
judice,” and she threw her mantle from the 
carriage to the ground. 

John stopped his horse and went back for 
it. “She’s daft,” he muttered, “ clean daft ; 
’tis as the master said. I’ll not bandy words 
with her, the poor stricken creature.” The 
tide of his anger was turned by this proof of 
what he believed to be her insanity, and he 
cast pitying glances at her and Dorothy till 
they reached the Hall. During the greater 
part of the way Mistress James seemed buried 
in thought. Once or twice her lips moved, and 
then gradually came over her face a look of 


44 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


resolute brightness, as if she were expecting 
some good and great event. There was a smile 
on her face as she passed directly through the 
house to the morning room, where she was 
sure to find her brother-in-law. She did not 
allow him time for speech, but announced in a 
clear voice, “lam moved to go beyond seas, 
Humphrey. The light of the spirit has this 
day revealed it to me, and I am now bidden to 
cast in my lot with those who go to join Wil- 
liam Penn’s colony.” 

The Squire looked up from some papers he 
had been reading. “ So, mistress ? I think it is 
a sad undertaking for one delicately nurtured. 
’Twould be of better service to your mind and 
body to seek a skilled physician, who can ‘ min- 
ister to a mind diseased.’ ” 

“I have need of but one physician,” was 
the answer, “and to Him I would I could lead 
thee, Humphrey.” 

“ Humph ! I prefer to be led by those who 
know whither they are leading. So, during 
your stay in prison you have wrought out this 
scheme of joining the colonies, have you ? And 
what about Dorothy ? ” 

The mother smiled down at the girl by her 
side. “And what about Dorothy? ” she asked. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


45 


“ Oh, mother, shall I not go, too ? ” 

“Says the spirit thus to thee, my child?” 

Dorothy knitted her brows. Spirit or incli- 
nation, she had but one answer to give, “I know, 
mother, that I would fain go where thou goest.” 

The old man sitting in the spring sunshine, 
turned an agitated face toward her. “And leave 
me — leave your father’s home, Dorothy?” 

The girl looked distressed. It did seem 
hard that divisions should come ; that this old 
man, whose best years had been devoted to 
Marmaduke James and his family, should now 
be bereft entirely. 

“ Come, too, uncle,” said Dorothy, going 
over to him, and speaking earnestly. 

He smiled. It was something gained, that 
she should want him at all. “ I’m too old a 
man for such junketing, my lass ; and my place 
is here where my duty is. Bide you here, too, 
you and your mother ; or let us go away till 
these evil times are past. What say you, 
Hester? I am yielding you a point I had 
promised myself I should stick to. For the 
child’s sake, let us have no differings.” 

“Her eternal good is what I seek,” returned 
the mother. 

“And is not this a Christian country? Has 


46 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


she not our own church teachings ? Does any 
one deny her the Bible or the prayers of a good 
priest ? Has any one aught to say against her 
living a godly life? Not I, mistress. I would 
gladly see her enveloped in an odor of sanctity 
which well suits a woman. Bless you, I’ve not 
a word to say against her going to church every 
day, if so she wills.” 

“ Vain, vain, the washing of the outside of 
the platter,” returned Mistress James. 

“Then, Dorothy, lass, your mother charges 
you with a foul heart, a wicked inward nature. 
A desperate-looking niece you are, I confess. 
Visit the poor and sick ; bestow alms ; do good 
and righteously ; and yet you are too evil to 
stay at home, but must be transported beyond 
sea.” The old man smiled sarcastically. 

“Ah, Humphrey, so thou sittest in dark- 
ness as do many, many, in the land. The vain 
show, the outward symbols, alone appeal to 
them. Nay, nay, I cannot abide in a place 
where the sun shineth not ; where destruction 
waiteth for my ewe lamb.” 

“ Then,” cried he, “ out at once, out at once. 
My patience has come to an end. Yet, per- 
chance, the advice of a leech would not be out 
of place, and a little blood-letting would ease 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


47 


the pressure on the brain/’ he added, half to 
himself. “ No, I will reconsider it. And you, 
Hester, take time to think it over. Tis true, 
the estate must go to the next of kin in the 
male line, but I have done well by it, and 
Dorothy shall not want.” 

“Vanity! vanity! the sale of a soul for 
Mammon. Nay, nay, better hodden grey and 
plain fare with the inward feast and the garb of 
purity.” 

“ Bah !” exclaimed the irate man ; “ I’ll out 
of this, and within a week, mistress, we’ll have 
your last word.” 

Yet the rest of the day Dorothy beheld her 
mother busily engaged in getting together such 
a store of goods as she meant to take abroad 
with her, and the girl added her work to her 
mother’s, so by night there were several boxes 
and chests packed and corded. 

And then came a homesick feeling over the 
child. She loved Humphrey’s Hall. She loved 
her uncle and old Margery, and even John 
Winterthorn. She realized that her uncle had 
been more than usually tolerant, and that he 
believed her mother distraught. Whatever 
uncertainty Dorothy felt, it always melted 
away in the calm presence of that beloved 


48 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


mother ; and now she was ready to pin 
her faith upon the Quaker beliefs, quite as 
ardently as ever. Yet she went out into the 
grounds, and wandered around with a great 
regret at heart. To a distant land among 
strangers ! It was an appalling thought. 
Never to see the home of her ancestors ; not 
to walk in the old churchyard, nor sit in the 
once beloved church ; not to ride gaily across 
country to see Beatrice Lowe or Helen Savile ; 
not to romp through the park with Jasper, 
nor visit the cottagers in the village beyond ; 
never again to go with John to the farm, nor 
to Bristol to the shops. Dorothy stood with 
clasped hands before an old sun dial ; the sight 
of it awakened more keenly all these mem- 
ories, for time would pass and only the years 
would show what was ahead of her. None of 
these things, but all strange and new events. 

The Squire had gone to town. Dorothy 
had left her mother writing letters, and Mar- 
gery busy in the storeroom. 

The little girl stood still so long before the 
sun-dial that John Winterthorn across the lawn, 
seeing her, wondered, and presently his crooked 
face peered over her shoulder. “ What’s there 
to see, Miss Dorothy ? ” 



Dorothy stood with clasped hands before an old sun-dtal — Page 48 



































































































THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


49 


“ Oh, John, nothing- but the flight of time. 
I was thinking, John, of how many times I had 
seen the shadows pass over this, and of how I 
should not watch them again.” 

“ Why, miss ! How’s this ? ” He looked 
startled. 

“ My mother and I are going to join William 
Penn’s colony.” 

“Surely not, miss, and is she no better?” 

“ Better? She is not ill, John.” 

“Is she not, then? It’s the mind, not the 
body. Never but one of our family have ever 
done such queer things, and it’s only a sick 
head or a sick heart that makes queer doings. 
Did the leech come ? ” 

“Yes, he did; and my patient mother submit- 
ted to be bled. She said it was best, for that then 
she could prove ’twas no phantasy of the brain 
which possessed her, but the real truth itself.” 

John looked thoughtful. “ If she were a 
James, I'd think she might have come by it 
through the same touch that was Master 
Hilary’s,” he said, half to himself. 

“What dost thou say, John?” 

“ I was but thinking of your father’s brother, 
Master Hilary, who was the only one who went 
beyond seas.” 


5o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Oh, yes ; I have heard my mother speak 
of him, though she never saw him.” 

“ He joined Lord Baltimore’s colony, and 
died soon after reaching Maryland. A fine 
looking lad he was, but a year and a half 
younger than your Uncle Humphrey ; an old 
man he would have been now. ’Twas his 
going off and his loss that hastened your 
grandfather’s death. He was much set upon 
Master Hilary.” 

“And did he go for religion’s sake? ” 

“Not he; he went for adventure’s sake. 
He was a bold lad, and barely twenty-one 
when he left, and but thirty when he was killed 
by the Indians.” 

“ Ah ! ” Dorothy recoiled. It added another 
pang to her parting to think of the savages in 
the country to which she and her mother were 
going. 

“Miss Dorothy, don’t ’e go, don’t ’e go!” 
said John, laying his hand on her arm. “The 
master’s had a sore time. He’s been mortal 
good to you and your mother. ’Tisn’t gratitude 
nor goodness to leave him in this fashion. Why, 
miss, I’ve seen him bite back the hot words 
many a time, so’s to keep your respect. I’ve 
seen him tend your father like a woman ; walk 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


51 


him up and down all night long when he was 
sick ; give up to him ; do for him — why, miss, 
you don’t half know, — and now in his old age to 
desert him, I say ’tis no religion, ’tis no truth 
nor righteousness ; ’tis but pig-headedness.” 

“John!” Dorothy uttered the word with 
dignity. 

“Yes, yes ; I know ’tis your mother; but 
she is beset by an evil spirit, if spirit at all.” 

“ Oh, John ! my dear, good mother ! Shame 
on you ! ” 

“Nay, miss ; shame on them that leads her 
wrong ; that teaches her to forsake her duty. 
Don’t ’e go, miss ; don’t ’e go, and maybe she’ll 
not.” 

It was a sore temptation for Dorothy, and 
she did not answer for a moment. Then she 
said : “ But, John, suppose my mother should 
stay. She must suffer for her belief. Such 
dreadful things go on every day, and they are 
getting worse and worse in Bristol. I know 
my mother would remain steadfast through all 
persecution, and perchance she might be 
imprisoned again, or beaten — my mother — 
beaten ! I could not stand that. Surely, ’twere 
better for her to go where she could be free to 
do as she believed right.” 


52 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Then, miss, you stay while the master 
lives, and join her after. He’s an old man, and 
’twill go hard with him. Think ; he has not 
only lost the brother who was as his own son, 
but the one who was like a twin to him. Mas- 
ter Hilary and him were comrades from babies 
up. He’s had sharp sorrows, miss. Don’t ’e 
give him more.” 

But Dorothy could not make promises, 
although she was greatly torn in her desire to 
add to the happiness of all. She walked slowly 
toward the house, turning over all this talk of 
John’s. 




CHAPTER IV 

ON SHIP-BOARD 

Dorothy found her mother walking up and 
down the room in more excitement than she had 
seen her show for some time. 

“ My daughter,” she said, “ I have sent off 
the boxes, and, though thy uncle forbade my 
doing so, I must go at once to Bristol. If I do 
not return to-night, thou must join me there 
to-morrow at Rachel Townsend’s. Thy uncle 
is sorely wroth, for that I was moved to speak 
my mind to him. I bore testimony to the truth, 
and warned him of his evil ways. He took it 
in ill part, and bade me begone. Thou must 
know that I overheard his talk with the leech 
who came yesterday, and because of what I 
heard, I freed my mind to him. I would not 
have him think me an eavesdropper, and he 
said, did I persist in attending the meetings, I 


54 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


should go to a mad-house. Think of it, Dor- 
othy ! worse, far, far worse, than leaving home 
and friends ’twould be, shut up from those I love, 
and that was the intent. Dost thou wonder 
that I hasten to find refuge from such ill-pur- 
pose ? They will take thy mother from thee, 
and I shall nevermore breathe free air, nor 
follow my call to bear testimony to the 
truth.” 

“ Oh, mother, I see ! I see ! ’Tis true my 
uncle thinks thee bereft of reason.” 

“ Therefore, dear one, thou canst see my cause 
for haste. I think, for thy sake as well as my 
own, daughter, we had best leave these parts at 
once, if so be I find a vessel sails this week 
from Bristol as was reported ; or it may be we 
shall have to sail from some other port ; at all 
events we must be betimes. If I return not, 
take it, then, as assurance that our journey is 
set upon at once. I would have thee to go 
with me, but I know not what may come of my 
journeying to Bristol. It may be the author- 
ities will have me in charge again, and I cannot 
have thee, too, suffer ; ’twould add to my 
distress.” 

“ Oh, but, mother, I would gladly suffer 
with thee.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


55 


“ Nay, nay, ’tis not so borne in upon me 
that thou shouldst. I feel moved to go to the 
city, but not to take thee with me ; bide thou 
here till to-morrow, and then seek me at 
Rachel’s. Should aught occur, I will send thee 
a message. Soon, soon we shall be free. There, 
dearest, do not weep — ’tis but till to-morrow, 
and perhaps thou wilt even see me return 
before night. One knows not what the voice 
may bid me do. I yearn greatly toward Hum- 
phrey. He has been a kind brother. I am 
grieved to thus distress him. Farewell, my 
love ; kiss me again.” 

All Dorothy’s pent-up feelings found an out- 
let in this adieu, and she watched her mother 
depart, after a final charge to be sure to reach 
Rachel Townsend’s as early as possible the 
next day. 

Her uncle showed a gloomy face at meal 
time. He was greatly troubled over his sister- 
in-law’s movements. Should he leave her free 
to go and come, it must mean added persecu- 
tion for her, distress for him and disgrace for 
all, so he reflected ; and he decided that upon 
his return home again he would take extreme 
measures and treat her as one insane. That she 
really meant to leave the country so soon he was 


56 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


not aware ; for he believed she must give more 
time to the arranging of her affairs. 

“ ’Tis a bad business, an evil time,” he said 
to his stanch attendant, John Winterthorn. “I 
would have you go to Bristol, John, and keep 
track of Mistress Marmaduke James’s actions. 
Should trouble seem impending, bear me word 
at once, and she shall be spirited away to a 
place of safe keeping. The old place up in 
Stafford would serve us well for a time ; ’tis 
quiet and removed from cities. ’Twere best for 
her and the child that she go there.” 

John comprehended the situation, and 
departed. 

Already, however, Mistress James had made 
her plans. The vessel bound for the colonies was 
to bear more than one Friend to the new pro- 
vince of Pennsylvania, and Hester made hasty 
arrangements. Her boxes were placed on 
board, and she took passage ; then waited 
for Dorothy to appear. 

By the next day John Winterthorn had dis- 
covered her intention, and post-haste set out to 
return to his master with the news. At the 
same time Dorothy started forth toward the 
town, having arisen before her uncle, from 
whom she had taken her leave the night before. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


57 


“ Poor uncle ! poor uncle !” she said to her- 
self, “ he does not know this is my final 
good-bye,” and she ran back to give him 
an extra kiss after her foot had touched the 
stair. 

And now in the early morning she had 
stolen forth, being fearful lest she should be 
detained. She skirted the lawn and went 
through a little wicket gate, instead of by the 
lodge, and she was hurrying along when she 
came face to face with John Winterthorn. 

His twisted face looked more snarly than 
ever as he came up to the girl hurrying along. 
“ Whither so early, miss ?” he asked. 

“ To Bristol, to see my mother,” she replied, 
promptly and truthfully. 

“ To join your mother and slip off like a 
thief in the night, eh ! A brave leave-taking ! 
Stay, miss, not so fast,” for she was hast- 
ening on. “ I know the whole plan, and that 
your mother has taken passage on the ship, 
which sails to-day. Now, I’ll go back with 
you, since you must go, and I’ll have no rabble 
setting on you while I am by. You give me 
leave to see you on your way ?” 

“ Oh, yes, John. ’Tis kind of thee. I am 
to meet my mother at Rachel Townsend’s.” 


58 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“Then back I go ;” and John grimly marched 
by her side back to the town. 

“ I am fain to see the last of the lass,” he 
told her mother. “ Bid me take her to the 
ship, since ’tis thither you are bent.” 

“ Oh, good John, I willingly bid thee see her 
safely there,” Hester James told him. “ Thou 
knowest where the vessel lies.” 

“Aye, do I. I’ll see her there, and meet 
you at the water’s edge.” 

“ I am glad to leave it so, for I have many 
matters to attend to, and may be kept till the 
last moment. So go, Dorothy, when John 
comes for thee.” 

“ I hate to have thee leave me, mother,” the 
girl said an hour later ; “ for, if John should not 
come, I might not meet thee at the ship, and 
should lose thee.” 

“Nay, child, I shall not step aboard till I 
receive the assurance from John that thou art 
safe.” 

So Dorothy contented herself as best she 
could, and was glad when John at last appeared, 
and they were ready to take their way through 
the streets to where the ships lay. 

“ Let me wait here till mother comes,” 
begged Dorothy, when they paused at last 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


59 


before a vessel, lying- a little out, on which the 
bustle of departure was apparent. 

“No,” returned John, “I like not to have 
you hear the speech of the men on the wharves, 
nor be elbowed by them. Get you on board, 
miss ! There, I’ll give you a hand. Safe there ! 
Now sit you down content. This lad will row 
us out to yon dark hulk, and there I’ll leave 
you, and go back to meet your mother, as I 
promised.” He helped her up the side of the 
big ship and saw her comfortably settled on 
deck, where he left her, trembling and excited, 
watching eagerly for her mother to appear. 

But moments passed, minutes became 
hours, and she beheld more than one vessel 
pass out of the dock. She noted one in partic- 
ular, crowded with passengers, a big craft it 
was. She wondered where it was going. Then 
a soft pall of darkness settled down and Doro- 
thy suddenly became aware that the vessel 
on which she was had begun to move slowly 
out. 

As she realized the fact, that she was alone, 
and that no mother had come aboard, she 
sprang to her feet and cried, “ Oh, where are 
we going ? Where is my mother ? Oh, I can- 
not go ! I cannot ! ” 


6o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ What is the matter, my lass ? ” asked a 
man by her side. 

“ Oh, sir, I cannot go on alone ! My mother 
has not come.” 

“ So ? but we’ll drop anchor again directly. 
I think the captain means but to stay over night 
a little further out.” 

“ And then I shall not be taken to America 
till there is a chance of my mother yet coming ?” 

“To America ? ” 

“Yes, we are to go to the colony of Penn- 
sylvania.” 

“ Not on this ship.” 

Dorothy looked bewildered. “Not on this 
ship ? ” she repeated. “ Why, is not this bound 
for the colonies ? ” 

“ Not a bit of it. We are shipped for the 
Mediterranean. Yon big vessel you see off 
there, — a speck she is becoming, that is the 
vessel that sailed for America. She passed us 
an hour ago.” 

“ Oh, I saw one so filled with passengers 
that I wondered ! Was it she ?” 

“ It was she.” 

“ But my mother could not have been on 
board. Not without me — without me ! ” 

“ Eh ? We’ll have to see the captain about 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


61 


this. Come below, my little maid, and let us 
look into this. Aye, there, Captain Higgins, 
you’ve shipped the wrong passenger,” the man 
said, as a bluff-looking, red-faced individual 
appeared in sight. He paused and listened to 
Dorothy’s account of herself. 

“ ’Tis clearly a mistake,” he said. “ Your 
man has brought you aboard the wrong ship. 
Yet I know not how he has managed it. The 
best I can do is to send you ashore in the morn- 
ing. Will you be content till then, miss ? By 
your speech I take you to be one of those against 
whom the town is greatly incensed, and there 
are, in these ways by the waterside, rough roy- 
sterers, who would think it sport to affright a 
lonely maid, and ’twould be no kindness to send 
you to land to-night if I could. In the early 
morning some incoming craft will take you.” 

Dorothy’s lip quivered. “ But my mother 
will be sore distraught, sir, and I would fain see 
her and re-assure her.” 

“You were to set sail at peep of day, I heard 
you say, Captain,” interposed the man who had 
befriended Dorothy. “An’ you will send me 
ashore with a good arm for rowing, I will see the 
maid to the house of her friends and be back 
again betimes.” 


62 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


The Captain again rubbed his chin. “’Tis 
risking the loss of a sailor at best,” he returned, 
“for the pot-houses will be sure to prove a 
snare to any one I send, and I am anchoring out 
that I may have a sober crew.” 

“Your name, my lass,” said the man, ad- 
dressing Dorothy. 

“I am called Dorothy James.” 

“ Is it so ? You are, perhaps, a kin of 
Squire Humphrey James ? ” 

“I am his niece, and Humphrey’s Hall has 
always been my home.” 

“Then, Captain, I must see the maid safely 
returned. The Squire and I are old friends. 
Ah, now, I think — ” He bent and looked closer 
at Dorothy. “ I see ; it was your mother whose 
release the Squire sought but a short time since.” 

“Yes, and we were to go to Pennsylvania 
to-day. It will be a sore disappointment to her 
to lose me and her opportunity of going.” 

“ I doubt it not. Well, Captain, hire me a 
man and a boat, and I’ll pay for both and hold 
myself responsible for their return in good order, 
or else myself will play sailor for you. Yet, 
methinks my best plan is to keep the man in 
sight. That I will do, and we will be back so 
quick as we may.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


63 


And, therefore, after a little more parley, a 
boat was lowered into the black waters, and 
Dorothy was helped down the vessel's side and 
was rowed swiftly toward the city, whose twink- 
ling lights were reflected in the moving waves. 
Night added to the terror which took possession 
of the girl. She was with utter strangers on 
this body of water, which now in the darkness 
seemed ready to engulf her. Would she land 
safely? and after that, would she ever reach 
her mother ? Might not this be an enemy to 
the Quakers, who was ready to cast her into the 
gaol ? 

As if answering her thoughts, the man who 
had interested himself in her said : 

“ I’ve not told you my name, Mistress James. 
I am George Billings, a merchant and a friend 
of your uncle, to whom I am in debt for many 
favors, and this occasion affords me an oppor- 
tunity of wiping out some of my scores. Where 
shall I deliver my charge ? ” 

“ My mother left me at Rachel Townsend’s.” 

In the dark Dorothy did not see the scorn- 
ful little smile on the man’s face, but he replied, 
“Then, thither we will go. Come, my man,” he 
added, turning to the sailor. “ I am not to lose 
sight of you. Stick by me and you shall have 


6 4 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


a piece of money for the sacrifice of giving up 
a carousal with the lads of your own ilk.” 

Through the dim streets they took their way 
and arrived at last at Rachel Townsend’s, where 
not a light was burning, but after a little time a 
thunderous knocking aroused some one, and a 
head was seen at one of the upper windows. 

“ Is Mistress Marmaduke James here ? ” 
inquired Mr. Billings. 

“ Hester James ? Nay, she departed for the 
colonies this very day.” 

“ Oh !” cried Dorothy, “is it thou, Rachel ?” 

“ ’Tis I, and, — nay, it cannot be Hester’s 
daughter ! ” 

“ But it is I — Dorothy.” 

“I will come down,” returned Rachel ; and 
in a few moments she appeared at the door. 
“How is this, Dorothy?” she asked; “where 
is thy mother ? What has happened ?” 

“ That I wish to know. Is she not here ?” 

“Nay, I left her on shipboard. She was in 
haste, for the captain, even then, hurried her, 
and bade her get aboard.” 

“ But did she not know I was not there ? ” 

“ Nay ; but she thought thou wast. She 
was assured by John Winterthorn that thou 
wast. I saw him myself ; he waited on the 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


65 


wharf, and thy mother asked, ‘ Is Dorothy safe 
aboard ?’ and he replied, ‘ Aye, she is safe 
aboard,’ and then thy mother stepped in the 
little boat in waiting, and was rowed out to 
where the big vessel lay, and at once she set 
sail. I watched her.” 

“ Oh !” Dorothy began to sob. “ She is 
gone, she is gone. Oh, what shall I do ? what 
shall I do ?” 

“ I have my suspicions,” said Mr. Billings, 
“ that John Winterthorn has purposely misled 
you. But, now, since your mother is not here, 
would I not best take you to one of your rela- 
tives ? Mistress Frances Preston is a cousin, if 
I mistake not.” 

“Yes, she is ; but is there no way to reach 
my mother ?” 

“ I fear not, but it may be she will discover 
that you are not with her, and if in time, and 
an incoming craft is met, she may be able to 
return on her. So rest you quiet with that 
hope.” 

“ Cursed be he who oppresses the widow 
and the fatherless,” began Rachel Townsend. 

“ There, there, my good woman, have done 
with that,” interposed Mr. Billings ; “we want 
no rabble about our ears at this hour.” And 

5 


66 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


taking Dorothy by the arm, he hurried her away, 
and they next brought up at her Cousin Pres- 
ton’s. Here lights were glowing and voices 
were heard in gay talk. Dorothy was given 
into Mrs. Preston’s hands, and Mr. Billings 
hastened away, leaving a very forlorn little girl 
weeping in her cousin’s arms. 

“ Poor little lass, poor little lass ; tell me all 
about it,” said Mistress Preston, and Dorothy 
sobbed out her story. 

“Why, John Winterthorn was here but a 
short time since,” Mrs. Preston told her. “ I 
will send one of the maids to see if he has yet 
gone,” and before long the old man appeared. 
He looked astonished at seeing Dorothy. “ My 
faith, miss,” he stammered, “are you here?” 

Dorothy brushed away her tears indignantly, 
crying, “Yes, and ’tis thy doing, John. Thou 
hast brought this sorrow upon me. Oh, why — 
why didst thou not take me to my mother’s 
ship ?” 

John looked down at his toes, but said never 
a word for a full minute. “I took you to the 
ship that I was told was bound for the colonies,” 
at last he said. 

“ I believe thee not,” returned Dorothy. 
“ Thou hast deceived and injured a poor, inno- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


67 


cent girl, and a great wrong lies at thy door. 
I wish I might never see thee more.” 

“ There, Dorothy, there ; do not take it so 
to heart. John did, perhaps, mistake,” inter- 
posed her cousin. 

“ Then why did he meet my mother at another 
place, and see her go toward a ship further 
up, when he knew I was not on it ? He assured 
her I was safe aboard. No, no ; I see it now. 
He has all along tried to keep me from going, 
and ill will follow him for this deed — it must. 
Oh, my mother ! my mother ! Shall I never see 
thee again ?” And the child, overcome with 
grief, burst into a fresh torrent of tears, while 
John Winterthorn left the room at a signal from 
Mrs. Preston. 

The next day Dorothy found herself back 
again at Humphrey’s Hall, where she was 
received joyfully by her uncle. 

“ And so I have you again, you little runa- 
gate. Never mind, I will not scold, so long as 
you are back with me, nor will I question the 
method by which you were brought. No, no ; 
tell me no tales. Come, little one, we will settle 
down in the old way.” 

“ And you will not send me to my mother ? ” 
queried Dorothy, in whose heart this last hope 


68 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


had been growing since the day had brought 
no sign of her mother. 

“Not a bit of it will I. A pitiful thing, 
indeed, it would be to ship you over seas to a 
poor, demented fanatic ; to send you to a howl- 
ing wilderness, with not a soul to look after 
you, or to keep the Indians from scalping you. 
No, no ; I have too much concern for your 
welfare, my dear.” 

The Squire was well pleased at what he 
believed to be a most opportune and satisfac- 
tory solution of the problem which had troubled 
him not a little, and he seemed more sunny and 
genial than the household had seen him for 
many a day. 

But poor little Dorothy drooped, and went 
around with so mournful and pitiful a face as 
made her uncle secretly feel very sorry for her, 
but he made no allusion to her distress. Once 
she tried to go to a Friend’s meeting at Bristol, 
but she was captured and brought back. Squire 
James was determined upon breaking up all 
such associations, and he ordered a strict watch 
to be kept on his niece, yet not such as would 
restrict her while she kept within bounds. 
Moreover, he exerted himself to take her driv- 
ing in his chaise, and loaded her with presents 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


69 


and favors. Yet all this did not bring the color 
to Dorothy’s cheeks, nor take the longing from 
her eyes. 

And then occurred one of those strange 
incidents which, in those days of religious 
excitement and superstitions, took place very 
frequently, and which, unexpected as it was, 
altered the current of Dorothy’s life. 




CHAPTER V 

A SECOND FLIGHT 

Dorothy was walking down toward the 
lodge one morning, when she heard a clamor 
of voices, and saw a small group of persons 
gathered around the gate, outside of which the 
tall form of a woman stood. Against the wall, 
trembling and shaking, cowered John Winter- 
thorn, and the woman, Rachel Townsend, was 
addressing him in a shrill voice. With one 
hand she scattered coin upon the dusty road, 
at the same time tearing the garments from 
her. 

“ I am a sign to thee,” she cried. “ So shall 
the Lord scatter thy possessions ; so shall He 
strip thee of thy hypocritical professions. Shake, 
aye, quake and tremble ! The Lord knoweth 
thee for a hypocrite and a dissembler. He will 
reveal thy hidden sins. Thou that dost devour 

70 




THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


71 


the substance of widows and orphans, the ven- 
geance of the Lord shall pursue thee ! ” 

It was a wonder that this outspoken Quaker 
had not before this been arrested and sent to 
the jail, for many had, for less, been so treated, 
but she, in some marvelous manner, had thus 
far escaped, and had determined to upbraid 
John for separating Dorothy from her mother. 

Rhoda and her husband stood open- 
mouthed. Dorothy listened in silence while 
Rachel’s tirade went on. 

“ Come out, come out and declare thy sins, 
else shall the Lord destroy thee utterly ! Lo, 
He hath already laid His hand upon thee ! ” 
John, still shrinking closer and closer to the 
wall, at last cried out, “I repent! I repent!” 

Rachel, stooping, gathered up her coin, re- 
placed her scattered robes, and stalked away, 
while John, bowed and trembling, came into the 
porch of the lodge and sat down. 

Ever since her mother’s departure, Dorothy 
had avoided the man to whom, as a child, she 
had been greatly attached, and John had felt 
her disfavor greatly. He tried every means to 
propitiate her. “Your Quaker preachers bid 
you forgive,” he one day said, “and you do not 
forgive,” 


72 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“I forgive thee, John,” replied Dorothy, 
“ but I do not wish to have aught to say to thee. 
I bear thee no malice. I wish thee no harm, 
but I cannot bear to see thee, for I am reminded 
of my mother, who now should be with me but 
for thy deceit,” and she turned away, the tears 
falling fast. 

The day following Rachel’s visitation, John 
met Dorothy by the old sun dial. He looked 
broken and miserable. “ Mistress Dorothy,” 
he said, “ I confess to doing you a wrong. I 
did beguile your mother into letting you go 
with me to the ship, for I had a hidden purpose 
to lead you wrong. I knew you were not on 
the right ship. I knew the one on which I left 
you would not sail till morning. The mate is a 
nephew of mine, and ’twas with him I arranged 
the matter. I meant to go back for you before 
you should set sail, for I knew the vessel on 
which your mother was would by then be far 
out, and I meant to deceive you both. I did it 
for your sake, mistress. I did in truth, but my 
eyes are open and I see my fault. It was for 
you and the master ; but I did wrong. What 
can I do to make amends ? ” 

“Oh, John,” cried Dorothy, eagerly, “if 
thou couldst but get me to my mother.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


73 


“ Aye, that will I, though ’twill go hard with 
the master.” 

“ I know it. But, John, is it not right ? and 
is it true that thou hast received convincement, 
as my mother prophesied ?” 

“ Aye, mistress, I have, and I think I see 
clearly that I am in a state of sin and misery.” 

“ And wilt thou join the Friends ?” 

“ I cannot say. I am waiting for light ; and 
now, mistress, I must tell you that I have busi- 
ness over seas. A wrong to right in another 
direction. Will you trust yourself to me again ? 
I promise you to be faithful. I will take pas- 
sage for us both on the next vessel that sails, 
if you will it. God grant, I am not doing 
wrong.” 

“ But if my uncle knows it, he will detain 
me, and, John, I am weary for my mother. It 
seems so long — so long.” 

“ I know, miss, yet it is hard to tell what is 
right.” 

“I think.” returned Dorothy, “that I will 
ask my uncle to let me see my Cousin Frances. 
She is very kind, and she knows how desolate 
a mother can be without her child, and so she 
may help me. I think I can trust her, and she 
has good influence with my uncle. Moreover, 


74 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Jasper is the heir, and she would not willingly 
do him wrong by acting contrary to my uncle’s 
pleasure. So I think she will speak fairly to 
me ; and if be that she can get me off, ’twill be 
well. My box of clothing my mother has ; I 
shall need but a bundle.” 

And that very evening she made her 
request that her uncle would allow her to go 
and see Mistress Preston. 

“Give you leave? Faith, will I, Dolly. 
Frances will cheer you up, and Jasper, too, 
I’ll warrant. A fine lad is Jasper.” 

“ He is so, and I think he is a good son.” 

“ My observance has been that he is. I 
shall like to see Mistress Preston myself. She 
has a gracious presence, and knows well how 
to smooth away the prickles.” 

And again Dorothy found herself in Bristol. 

“ I’ll leave the maid with you, Frances, but 
I charge you, let her not gad, for she still has a 
leaning toward the shaking Quakers, and we 
must keep her apart from them. Have an eye 
over her, good Frances. Three days is the 
limit, mind,” charged the Squire, as he took his 
departure. 

Dorothy found occasion, very soon, to pour 
out her woes in a willing ear. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


75 


“ Poor, little poppet, I am truly sorry for 
you. Let me think it out, Dorothy, dear, and 
I’ll see what can be done to serve the interest 
of all concerned. Mad, Hester may be ; but’tis 
a simple mania which will not touch her love for 
you. Alack ! how she must have grieved at 
finding herself each moment further separated. 
I’ll warrant it took more faith and courage than 
any Quaker possesses to make her preserve a 
peaceful spirit. There, little one, do not weep. 
There comes Jasper. He is a most excellent 
comforter, I find.” 

She was so affectionate and interested, so 
handsome and smiling, that Dorothy plucked up 
heart, and met Jasper with a little smile of 
welcome. 

“What a pale doll it is,” he said, as he 
looked into her face. “Are you ill, coz ?” 

“ She is heart-sick and homesick,” his 
mother told him, “ and small wonder ; were 
your mother tossing on the high seas, and being 
borne away from you, my laddie, how should 
you feel ? Ah, my son, ’tis a trying time for 
Dolly. Now, make your sweetest speeches to 
her, while I go think what is to be done.” 

And a most diplomatic bit of thinking the 
fair widow did. “ ’Tis fortune’s chance,” she 


76 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


said to herself, clapping her soft, white hands 
together. “And no one is made miserable. 
True, I am setting out to feather my own nest. 
But to whose disadvantage ? To no one’s. I 
have not a heart so cruel as to wink at separat- 
ing mother and child, and it would never do to 
leave Cousin Humphrey alone.” She laughed 
quietly, and at night she stole into Dorothy’s 
room with a light in her eyes and a glow on her 
cheeks. She looked very young and fair to be 
the mother of a lad eighteen years old. 

“Well, my poor little heart, are your eyes 
still open?” she asked. “ Let me sit here and 
talk to you. Dolly, dear, I think it is but right 
that I should help you join your mother. Now, 
if I help you to go, will you promise that your 
uncle shall not hear of it ? I will do my best to 
make it all right with him. I will let him know 
at once, when you are fairly off. All I want is 
your assurance that he shall not know of my 
conniving at it. ’Tis but fair trade, think you not?” 

Dorothy considered, “Yes, I do, cousin; I 
promise.” 

“ Does your uncle know of John Winter- 
thorn’s strange confession ? ” 

“ I told him not. I forgot, in my eagerness 
to see thee about this other matter.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


77 


“ It is well, and I hope he will not know for 
a pretty while. Will John tell him, think you ?” 

“ That I know not. ’Twas but the day I 
left that I heard it, and my uncle does not 
return home till he calls for me on his way back 
from Stafford.” 

“True; then I think we can get you off 
before then, if so be there is a vessel going, 
and I think one will be sure to sail within that 
time ; if not to Pennsylvania direct, to one of 
the other colonies, and from thence you can 
easily make your way. Now go to sleep, my 
pink ; you shall see your mother soon.” 

“ Oh, cousin, how good you are,” cried 
Dorothy, throwing her arms around the other’s 
neck. 

“Ah, you forgot your thou that time,” 
laughed her cousin ; and, indeed, in moments 
of excitement, this Dorothy was likely to do. 
“ I am very good — to myself. Good night, and 
fair dreams.” 

Mistress Preston was not given to dallying, 
and by noon the next day all Dorothy’s arrange- 
ments were made. John Winterthorn was sent 
for, and clever Cousin Frances encouraged him 
in his belief that it was his duty to see Doro- 
thy safe in her mother’s hands. 


78 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“And I, myself, will pay her way,” said 
Mistress Preston, “and thine too, good John.” 
And, since the old man was a bit close, this 
clinched the matter, especially as Mistress Pres- 
ton made an additional promise of informing 
the Squire as soon as he should return. 

“Pm somewhat old for so long a journey,” 
quoth John, “ but ’tis my duty, ma’am, and I 
owe the dead still a greater one, and so I am 
willing to run any risks from savages or aught 
else.” 

“I think you’ll escape the savages,” returned 
Mistress Preston, with a light laugh, as she 
glanced at his bald head. “A poor scalp-lock 
you would furnish them. And now settle your 
affairs speedily, John, for the vessel will sail 
to-morrow.” 

Therefore it was that, as Squire James rode 
up before the door of the widow Preston’s 
house, a vessel was spreading her sails to wing 
her flight across the broad ocean, bearing Dor- 
othy and her henchman, the latter bewildered 
by the suddenness of the matter, and the 
former full of great joy at the thought of seeing 
her mother again. 

Yet during the long voyage there came 
moments when the girl was filled with appre- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


79 


hension. It seemed a dreadful thing to leave her 
home ; to desert her kind uncle, who, despite 
his sudden gusts of temper, had been always a 
person she could love and respect. Dorothy 
was young, and, left to herself, she would proba- 
bly not have adopted Quaker ways ; but the 
spirit of opposition was roused by coercive 
measures, and it was, perhaps, a spirit of wilful- 
ness as well which, in the first place, so deter- 
mined her to oppose her uncle. She liked pretty 
things ; she was fond of her girl companions, 
and yet she had given up all these to join a set 
of persons so serious that laughter or mirth 
was decried by them, and beauty considered 
something which fostered an undue pleasing of 
the senses ; so, no wonder that, more than once 
during her voyage, Dorothy sighed for the flesh- 
pots of Egypt, glad as she was that she was 
going to join her mother. 

“ Shall we have any trouble, thinkest thou, 
in finding her, John ? ” she asked over and over. 

“No, mistress, I think not ; I have asked 
many of these aboard, and they say if we but 
follow with those who join the Penn colony, no 
matter where we may be landed, that we shall 
eventually find her.” 

“Yes, I know, many Friends have already 


8o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


gone, and my mother will find protection, I 
doubt not ; but, John, it is such a wild country, 
and if the Indians do not cut off our scalps, the 
Puritans may cut off our ears. Several maimed 
thus I have seen. ’Twas done by order of the 
New England Governor, Endicott, they told 
me. What a wicked man he must have been. 
I am glad he is not now Governor, or I should 
be vastly afraid, should we land near the New 
England colonies.” 

“We are promised a direct trip to the Dela- 
ware/’ John told her. 

“ And where is that ?” Dorothy’s geography 
was not very clear to her. 

“ ’Tis the body of water nearest the colony 
of Mr. Penn. I do not rightly know if it is a 
river or what ; I but hear them say ‘ the 
Delaware.’ ” 

“ Perhaps a river like our own Avon. Ah, 
John, I shall never see the dear Avon again.” 

“ Perchance you may, miss. I hope to, and 
I am much older than you.” 

“Aye ; but thy mother is not waiting on the 
other side of the ocean for thee, for we are near- 
ing land, I heard them say this morning. Dost 
thou suppose my uncle will be much enraged 
at us ? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


81 


“ I fear so, Miss Dorothy, and I feel very 
bitterly at my share in the transaction. Yet so 
was I led, and I believe it to be right.” 

“ What will he say when you — I mean thou — 
goest back ? Will he not fall upon thee and do 
something dreadful ? ” 

“ That I do not know. I think he will berate 
me, but I have known the dear master too long 
to fear else than angry words from him.” 

“ Ah, that is true, and when he sees thee 
patient and tender under reproof, I know he will 
repent his harshness. I wish that thou wert not 
going back ; that thou wert going to remain with 
us. Ah, what is that?” She started to her 
feet, for a great shout had gone up, “ Land ! 
Land ! ” 

“ Oh, how glad I am ; where, where is it ? ” 
Dorothy asked of her fellow passengers. “ I see 
nothing.” 

“There, there it is,” she was told. “That 
long, gray line, just at the horizon.” 

“ ’Tis but a bank of clouds I see.” 

“ No, ’tis land. So says the captain.” 

“Ah, well, and then we shall ere long be on 
shore again.” Dorothy was greatly excited, 
and so were many others who were venturing 
on this enterprise — the planting of a new home 


82 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


in a strange country. Some of the women 
wept ; others clasped their children and bade 
them cry, “ Land ! land ! ” It had been a long, 
weary time, nearly two months at sea, although 
it had been considered a good passage. 

Then came one morning when Dorothy was 
awakened, to be called on deck by John, who 
showed her a broad river into which the vessel 
was entering. “ ’Tis the Delaware,” he ex- 
claimed. 

“ Oh ! ” Dorothy caught his arm. “ It is a 
river ; and, oh, John, how beautiful ! What great 
trees, and how strange the green of the land- 
scape. All seems so bright, as if just washed. 
What are those queer places off there ? Like 
haystacks, are they not ? ” 

“Them be wigwams,” informed a sailor at 
her side. 

“ Wigwams ! and what are they ? ” 

“Where the Injuns live.” 

“ Indians ! Oh, are there any to be seen ? 
Yes; oh yes; in those strange boats. See, 
John, see ! real Indians !” 

She was not the only one who was earnestly 
scanning the landscape, and looking with curi- 
osity at the primitive inhabitants of this new 
land. One or two canoes were seen on the 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


83 


river, and Dorothy, with childish fear, shrank 
close to John. “Will they shoot us ? ” she whis- 
pered. “ Have they their bows and arrows ? ” 

“ They are peaceable,” she was assured. 

Up the beautiful stream swept the ship, for 
what seemed a long distance, but the hours 
passed quickly, for all was new and strange, 
and the sight of land, at all, was so welcome 
that it seemed as if the weary emigrants would 
never tire of feasting their eyes upon the fair 
shores. 

Others, beside Dorothy, expected to be 
joined by those dear to them. Many were look- 
ing for such a re-union, and it was a happy 
company, which finally gathered on deck to 
watch the vessel make its moorings. Wives 
looked eagerly to discover the form of a be- 
loved husband. Mothers strained their eyes 
to catch sight of their sons and daughters. 
Brothers looked for brothers, and all sighed for 
freedom. 

Before them arose the thickly-wooded shores; 
around them paddled the barks of the Indians. 
At last the anchor was cast ; one after another 
made the shore — a long, low, sandy stretch: — 
and finally all stood on free soil. 

With John at her side, Dorothy looked 


84 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


wonderingly around at the luxuriant, wild 
growth, so unlike anything she had ever seen ; 
at the broad river, at the huts and humble 
houses beyond in the clearing ; and suddenly 
she became aware that around her was a com- 
pany of Indians. She cowered close to John 
and clutched his arm, but not an Indian 
attempted to snatch a scalp-lock from any one. 
They stood grave, yet interested lookers-on, 
wrapped in their blankets. One or two offered 
a welcome to the newcomers, and to these Dor- 
othy gave a shy smile, as she realized their 
good intent. 

Then came other welcomes from those 
already settled ; broad-faced Swedes and those 
who, speaking the English tongue, seemed 
brothers and sisters all. 

“And what do they call this place?” asked 
Dorothy. 

“ Upland,” they told her. 

“And dost thou know my mother ?” ques- 
tioned the eager girl. “ She is Hester James.” 

“ Hester James ?” The man she addressed 
considered, then his face cleared. 

“Ah, yes, she came two months or more 
ago. She is here.” 

“ Oh !” It seemed too good to be true 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


85 


that at once she should be found. But the 
landings of the first emigrants were usually 
made at Upland, and it was not so strange as 
it would seem that Hester James should remain 
there. Indeed, it was with a strong hope that 
Dorothy would follow, that she preferred to 
stay, rather than go with friends to the older 
Jersey settlement of Quakers. 

The news of the arrival of the vessel had 
already reached her, so that Dorothy had pro- 
ceeded but a short distance toward the little 
Swedish village, when some one came hurriedly 
toward her with outstretched hands. 

“ Mother ! mother !” came the glad cry of 
the girl, whose feet seemed to lag, however fast 
they flew, and in another moment she was 
clasped in her mother’s arms. 



i 



CHAPTER VI 

UPLAND 

“ Oh, my daughter ! how fortunate that I was 
moved to remain here, and wait further guid- 
ance,” were the first words of Dorothy’s 
mother. “ Come, now, we will go to the shelter 
these kind friends have provided for me.” 

“Wait, mother, for John.” 

“ John !” she exclaimed in surprise. “ ’Twas 
he who has kept us so long asunder.” 

“Yes, I know, but he has come all the way 
with me.” 

“ Did thy uncle send him ?” 

“Nay, mother, he came of his own accord. 
Thy prophecy has come true. He has received 
convincement. Oh, I have much to tell thee, 
mother. It seems as if I could talk forever, — 
but here is John.” 

As the old man approached, little of his 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


87 


former aggressive manner was apparent. He 
seemed cowed and meek, and spoke very 
quietly when Hester James greeted him, and 
thanked him for bringing her daughter to 
her. 

“ ’Tis a kind service that I shall not speed- 
ily forget,” she said. 

The beautiful summer weather made it an 
easy matter to find camping out passable, even 
when living in the manner which Dorothy dis- 
covered her mother to be doing. 

“Why,” she exclaimed, when Mistress 
James pointed out the spot where she was 
dwelling, “ why, mother, ’tis not a house, ’tis 
like a cave.” And so it was, and so, too, were 
many of the dwellings of the first settlers. 
The earth was dug into for about three feet, 
and with sods and brush the sides were built 
up, forming a rude shelter. Many of these 
places were quite cosy, and were comfort- 
ably furnished. Outside swung a big kettle 
between two poles, on a stick transverse, and 
families lived, children were born, and strangers 
entertained in these same caves. 

Dorothy looked at it all with amazement. 
She had never seen anything in the least like 
it. Delicately reared, she at first shrank from 


88 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


such a habitation. “ Oh, mother !” she exclaimed, 
“is it here we must live?” 

“ For the present, yes. I am fortunate in 
having ready prepared the cave of a Friend who 
has been called from hence to Jersey, and we 
can be very comfortable, dear heart. ’Tis, at 
all events, much better than the dungeons 
of England, for here the air is pure and 
sweet, and the water clear and good. We 
do not want for supplies, and my daughter, 
I am sure, will need no better friend than her 
mother.” 

“Nay, I do not,” returned Dorothy, “ and if 
thou canst endure it, surely I can. But John has 
a most lengthy visage ; he seems ill pleased,” 
and Dorothy laughed at John’s lugubrious face. 
“ What dost thou think, John ?” 

“ That it is a good country, but a poor abid- 
ing place for such as you.” 

“We are no better than our neighbors, and 
the Son of Man had not where to lay his head,” 
returned Hester, gently. “This, good John, is 
but temporary lodgment ; after a time we shall 
build a better house. W e hope that William Penn 
will soon visit the colony, and we shall better 
learn what to expect, although already his kins- 
man, William Markham, hath come in his stead, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


89 


and hath called a council. Thou wilt find all here 
are kind and generous. The Swedes are good 
neighbors, and the Indians friendly, whereas our 
own people seem as of one family.” 

There, in the quiet of a primeval forest ; in 
sight of the sparkling waters of the broad river, 
within a stone’s throw of a cluster of rude cab- 
ins, the mother and daughter spent their after- 
noon, talking over all that had happened, and 
planning for the future. 

“I have a small sum of my own, Dorothy,” 
said Mrs. James, “ and with it I shall purchase a 
plot for us, and, after a time, we shall have a 
little home. ’Twill not be such as Humphrey’s 
Hall, and, indeed, nothing better than a log 
house ; but peace and content will dwell therein, 
so I hope, and we shall have neighbors of no 
better estate, who have had great wealth and 
position in England. But, there, we have been 
long talking and have forgotten John. Yet I 
doubt not he has found an abundance to 
interest him. Now, let us go and prepare our 
supper.” 

“Oh, mother, dost thou have to do that?” 

“And why not ?” 

“ I never saw thee do such things.” 

“Nevertheless I can. Thou shalt taste of 


9 o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


the fine fruits of the country, and of the maize, 
Dorothy. Thou hast never eaten maize.” 

“No, and what is it?” 

“We buy it from the Swedes and the 
Indians. Some call it Indian corn. ’Tis a grain, 
large and sweet ; when green it is very delicious 
boiled or roasted ; when dry and broken it is 
called hominy, and when pounded or ground 
into meal it makes excellent bread. Come, we 
shall have a fish fresh from the river, some ripe 
berries which I gathered this morning, and some 
of this same maize. Can you make a meal ?” 

Her mother seemed so happy and cheerful, 
so different from what she had been at home of 
late, that Dorothy felt that hers had been a good 
move. She smiled and gave her mother a hug. 
“ Oh, mother, dear, wherever thou art is home, 
and what can I desire more than is good and 
wholesome ; besides I am very weary of the 
ship’s stores, and long to taste these strange 
new dishes.” 

“There comes John; bid him join us,” 
returned her mother. 

“ Do you mean that he is to eat with us ? 
How strange !” 

“Not stranger than many other things thou 
wilt learn here. I should like a pail of fresh 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


9i 


water, Dorothy. Dost think thou couldst get 
it for me ?” 

“ From where, mother ? The river ?” 

“ Nay, that from the spring is better. Thou 
hast but to follow the beaten path ahead, and 
thou wilt see it. Thou canst not miss the way, 
and at this time of evening many will be taking 
the same path. Pluck no flowers or weeds, for 
some may be poisonous. Art afraid, daughter ?” 

“ Of the Indians, I am a little.” 

“ Thou needst not be ; they will not harm 
thee, even if thou shouldst encounter them, but 
if thou shouldst meet one, or shouldst miss thy 
way, thou wilt find a ready guide to show thee 
where to go.” 

Smoke was curling up from many fires ; the 
kettles swung in primitive fashion over them. 
It was like a big, busy encampment. Every 
settler along Dorothy’s way nodded pleasantly 
to her, and she found that the spring was too 
well frequented for it to be difficult to find. It 
was a pretty place ; the pure, cold water gush- 
ing from the rocks and purling down between 
nodding ferns and graceful flowering weeds. 
Many boys, girls and women were carrying 
pails to and from the place. Dorothy saw a 
squirrel frisking among the limbs of a great tree, 


92 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


and heard the sound of axes farther in the 
woods, where men were busy at work with their 
tools, getting ready some sort of shelter for those 
just arrived. Their cheerful voices came pleas- 
antly to Dorothy’s ears. She would like to 
have stopped and watch proceedings, for she 
saw much to interest her, but she remembered 
that her mother was waiting, and she hurried 
back. 

John had lent his help toward preparing the 
meal, and the fish, nicely cleaned and split open, 
was fastened to a board and was cooking before 
the fire, while as Dorothy approached, she saw 
her mother put down a second board, on which 
a johnny cake had been patted down. 

“ What a funny way to cook,” laughed 
Dorothy. “ It seems as if thou wert amusing 
thyself, mother.” 

“ ’Tis a strange place altogether, mistress,” 
said John. “ I have looked it over, and there 
is quite a village beyond, with some fair houses. 
The one across the stream, which they call 
Essex House, is quite habitable. Why does 
not your mother ’bide in some better place ?” 

“ ’Twas the best she could do, she says, 
for so many have come in, and the larger 
houses have all they can accommodate. We 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


93 


shall but stay till our own little house can be 
built, and in summer time this will not be 
unpleasant.” 

“ But those are respectable houses beyond, 
and better for one of her station.” 

“We are all on an equal footing, I hear my 
mother say.” 

“I like it not; I like it not; I would you 
were both better lodged. ’Tis not like your own 
fair chamber at home, mistress.” 

“ But it is really quite comfortable in the 
cave ; thou hast not seen how it is there. We 
shall do very well, I am sure, and here there is 
no fear of gaols, nor of spies and rabbles. Oh, 
John, hast thou seen any of the Indians’ houses ? 
I am most curious to see how they live. My 
mother says they strap their babies on a board 
and call them papooses. Is it not a funny word ?” 

“I have seen none as yet, but they appear 
a peaceable folk. It eases me greatly to so 
discover them, for else I had great fear in con- 
tinuing my journey. I have bespoken a horse, 
a sturdy, strong, little creature ; he seems well 
fitted to carry me down into the Maryland 
colony. I am told that further on I shall meet 
some one going that way, and shall have com- 
pany, so I shall be well satisfied.” 


94 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Ah, must you go at once ? ” 

“ I must, for I wish to return to the old home 
as soon as I can.” 

Dorothy looked sober. “ I wish thou couldst 
stay, John ; it seems like really breaking away 
from all the old ties when thou dost leave.” 

“ I needs must go. I have a task to per- 
form, and my old bones will not stand a new 
country. I have no calling here, I think, and 
your uncle will need me. I have been often 
distressed to think of what must fall upon him 
whilst I am away. Mistress Dorothy, have you 
told your mother of my evil doing? ” 

“I told her that thou hadst forsaken evil 
ways. Why dost thou not say thee and thou , 
John?” 

“ I doubt I come to it ; yet I may. So far, 
I see no reason why I should. I am but ready 
to be a better man and no longer abuse Friends. 
I shall stand up for them, whether or not I join 
their society. I like their morals, but not their 
too plain speech, which I fear me may make 
them meddlesome in the affairs of others. This 
dealing with friends I doubt is always a wise 
course.” 

At this moment Mrs. James called : “Come, 
John, come, Dorothy, our johnny-cake is nicely 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


95 


browned, and the fish stands ready for our 
eating.” 

John went toward her and stood up very 
stiffly. “ Mistress, I cannot partake of your 
food till I have your forgiveness,” he said. 

“Thou hast it cheerfully, John. Indeed, as 
I see it, ’twere best so, and was the Lord’s way 
of bringing thee to convincement, and though 
’twas a sore trial, now I have my daughter safe 
and sound, I am content.” 

It took some persuasion to make John sit 
down to the simple meal with them, but at last 
he yielded, although he was, at first, ill at ease, 
and begged to serve them ; but this Mrs. James 
would not permit. She was rigid in her adher- 
ence to the simplest forms. Later these primi- 
tive Quakers might relax some of their severe 
strictures, but now the uncompromising teach- 
ings of George Fox prevailed upon them to 
hold to certain direct lines. It remained for 
the milder influence of William Penn to soften 
the beliefs of many of these stern souls. 

Upon the banks of the Delaware, under a 
spreading tree, the soft summer breeze blowing 
gently from the river, Dorothy’s first supper 
was made, and she learned that simplicity of 
living does not necessarily mean discomfort, for 


9 6 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


she rarely had enjoyed anything more, and even 
thought the clearing away of the meal an amus- 
ing performance, involving, as it did, little 
work, so few were the utensils used. Instead 
of a broiling iron, a bit of board ; instead of a 
baking dish, another plank. Wild berries served 
in green leaves, green ears of corn in their 
own husks. 

Then came the beautiful end of day, and 
here came a new surprise for Dorothy. Sud- 
denly she saw dancing, flitting lights over the 
low marshes ; twinkling here, there, everywhere. 
“Mother, mother,” she cried, “what are they? 
Aren’t they strange and beautiful ? Are they 
fairies ? ” 

“What, daughter?” 

“These tiny, dancing lights. See, John.” 

The man stared. “ I never saw anything 
like them,” he said ; “ never anything at all.” 

Mrs. James laughed. “They are but fire- 
flies,” she told them. 

“And what are fire-flies ? Do they burn 
one ? ” 

“No more than our glow-worms.” 

“ Oh, I see. They are glow-worms with 
wings ; but beautiful they are, the dear, danc- 
ing creatures. Mother,” there was a twinkle in 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


97 


the girl’s eye, “ I wonder they come so near, for 
the Quakers must disapprove of them for 
dancing.” 

“ Dorothy.” There was a little reproof in 
the mother’s tone, but it was not very severe. 

“I wish I could catch one and see its size,” 
continued Dorothy. 

“That is easily done.” 

“So it is,” said the girl. “There is one 
tangled in thy hair, mother. Ah, let me get it. 
How queer it is. I thought it larger with such 
a bright lantern in its little body. ’Tis very con- 
venient. I never saw anything so beautiful as 
the dancing light they make. There, go home, 
little fairy fire-fly,” and she opened her soft hand 
to let the little creature escape. “ Oh, mother, 
I have seen many wonderful things, have I not ? 
I should like to send uncle a fire-fly, but I fear 
’twould die before it reached him, and I should 
like to send Jasper an ear of corn.” 

“ Thou didst not say adieu to Jasper ? ” 

“Ah, but I did. Have I not told thee how 
Cousin Frances helped me on, and how ’twas 
she who paid my passage and gave me money 
beside ? ” 

“Which I must return to her. She has not 
great wealth, and is nearly dependent upon her 


9 8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


mother. John will take the loan back to her, 
wilt thou not, John ? ” 

“Aye, I will, if so be I return alive from my 
expedition into Maryland.” 

“ Oh, surely thou wilt,” spoke up Dorothy. 

“Thou hast not told us what takes thee 
there, John,” Mrs. James remarked. 

“ No ; I will tell you on my return. It may 
be but a fruitless errand, yet if so, my mind will 
be at rest, and I shall have done more traveling 
than I ever thought would fall to my lot. I trust, 
mistress, when I am returned that you will be 
living in better estate, with a maid servant to 
do your work.” 

“That I shall in time. I have been thinking, 
John, that if thou couldst hear of some good 
and sturdy lass among Friends in Bristol, 
’twould be well if thou shouldst send her out 
to me, when thou returnest. I had meant to 
write to some one there of the matter, but I 
think thou wilt know better what would be my 
need, since thou hast been here. I will pay her 
passage, and she can serve me to redeem it ; 
many do so — some bringing other members of 
their families, and for a space of years serving 
those who buy their time.” 

“ Then will I look for such an one. There 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


99 


is many a lass will jump at the chance, I am 
sure. The idea pleases me well. I shall go 
back better content with that in prospect. I 
like not to tell the Squire that you soil your 
hands at labor for which you are ill-suited. 
’Twill hurt his pride, and Miss Dorothy, too, 
must not be made a menial. I shall be sorry I 
brought her, if it comes to that.” 

“ Ah, John, thou art yet somewhat under 
the dominion of the world, I fear, and would 
seek to raise some above others and give them 
undue honor.” 

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, 
mistress ; and, although I feel myself a changed 
man, I’m like to take my hat off to you and my 
master, and believe you to be my betters to my 
dying day.” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Dorothy, tiring of this 
subject, “ how good it is to be on land again. 
I grew so weary of the ship ; it seemed as if I 
should never get rid of its odors and its narrow 
quarters. Tell me, mother, are there many of 
our Bristol friends here ?” 

“ Not many as yet.” 

“ And are there girls of my age ?” 

“There are but few, save of the Swedish 
families.” 


IOO 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Dorothy put her head in her mother’s lap 
and sat very still, while Mrs. James questioned 
John about matters in and around their old 
home. The girl’s eyes wandered over the dim 
landscape, above which the deep sky arched, 
the stars showing their doubles in the stream 
below. In the great depths of the forest, 
beyond the clearing, could be heard the hoot- 
ing of an owl once in a while. The sudden 
gleam of fireflies, or the sparks sent up from a 
dying fire, made the darkness more apparent. 
Rich, penetrating odors filled the air. Out on 
the river the tall spars of the ship were outlined 
against the sky. Occasionally could be dimly 
descried an Indian canoe swiftly darting through 
the water, the plash of the paddles becoming 
fainter and fainter as the little bark vanished 
into the darkness. It all seemed large, lonely 
and grand, and Dorothy, for a time, felt awed 
and almost oppressed by it, but she sought her 
mother’s hand, and, being weary, she became 
drowsy, the gentle voice of her mother lulling 
her to slumber, and she was so sleepy that she 
hardly knew or cared when she at last lay down 
on her bed, made of pine twigs, to sleep 
soundly. 

And so began the life in the new world. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY ioi 

The morning- saw John Winterthorn well 
away on his expedition to Maryland, and then 
Dorothy took up a gypsy-like existence for the 
most part. True, she helped her mother to 
cook and mend and spin. She had the excite- 
ment of watching the little crafts come in from 
the older settlements in the Jerseys — and of 
making acquaintances among the Swedes, or 
the more mysterious Indians, whose manner of 
living was so very novel and interesting to the 
English girl. There were, moreover, two mat- 
ters of anticipation : the coming of Mr. Penn 
with more emigrants, and the return of John 
Winterthorn from his trip. 

It seemed as if this air of Pennsylvania stim- 
ulated Hester James to be merrier and more 
light-hearted, and at times she would frolic with 
Dorothy, as she did in days past. “ Mother, 
thou art prettier than my Cousin Frances,” the 
daughter said one day, looking at the pink 
cheeks and softly shining eyes of the Quakeress. 

“ Fie ! Fie ! Dorothy, thou must not beguile 
me in such strain,” and Mistress Hester looked 
very demure. 

“ I but speak the truth, mother.” 

“ They say thou growest like me, Dorothy,” 
returned her mother. 


102 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Do I, then ? I am very glad. Who says 
so?” 

“ Friend Benjamin Taylor.” 

“ The big fat one is he ? ” 

“ Nay, the younger, his brother.” The 
mother’s face had a pretty flush on it. 

Dorothy sat considering the speech, with a 
little uneasy feeling at heart. She wondered if 
she liked Benjamin Taylor very much, and also 
why he made such a remark to her mother. 





CHAPTER VII 

IN THE WOODS 

It surprised Dorothy to see not only her 
mother, but many other women, newly arrived, 
set themselves cheerfully to work to do those 
things which were the duty of the maid-ser- 
vants at home. It took some time before the 
litde girl, a born aristocrat, could reconcile her- 
self to these conditions. The coming to Penn- 
sylvania had been anticipated as a rather 
romantic episode ; but stern reality met Doro- 
thy on shipboard, and now resolved itself into 
a somewhat hard existence. It was one thing 
to be daintily served at her uncle’s table, and 
another to clean fish, mix meal, and carry water 
in this new home. But here she was and there 
was no help for it. To be sure, living was 
reduced to the simplest forms, not so elabo- 
rate as a modern camping out, or an ordinary 

103 



104 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


picnic ; but preparations for the future had to 
be considered, even if the cares of the present 
were comparatively few. 

However, it was a great pleasure for Dor- 
othy to be with her mother ; to spend days in 
the sweet-smelling forest, to take expeditions 
down the river to some other settlement, or to 
visit the Indian lodges, and the homes of the 
Swedes. All this was novel and delightful, and 
had the charm of that romance which the girl 
had hoped for, compensating in a great meas- 
ure for the sacrifices and hardships. 

She was, therefore, not displeased when her 
mother said to her one morning, “ Dorothy, 
child, I think I must send thee to old Taquana 
for a certain ointment, which she prepares very 
skillfully, I am told. Dost think thou canst go 
without missing the way? It is direct and not 
very far. This brier I ran in my foot yesterday 
is causing me trouble, and may render me unfit 
for walking if I neglect it.” 

“ I should like to go,” replied Dorothy. “Is 
it where we went one day together?” 

“A little beyond. ’Tis the home of an old 
Indian woman who dwells with her son, Tepase- 
kant. Canst remember the names ?” 

“ Such odd ones as they are. Yes, I think 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


105 


I can remember — Taquana. Everyone speaks 
of Taquana with her medicines and herbs. I 
have seen her come to the village to sell them. 
She does not belong to those wandering Indians 
who are in one place to-day and another 
to-morrow.” 

“ No, she is quite civilized, and has accepted 
the Christian faith. Thou needst have no fear 
of her, daughter.” 

Dorothy smiled. She was afraid of the 
Indians, and did not hesitate to say so, and it 
was a relief to know that old Taquana was not 
a wild savage. 

“I would go with thee,” continued Mrs. 
James, “ but for this troublesome foot of mine.” 

“I would take a much more dangerous 
journey for the sake of thy poor foot, mother. I 
will go at once. Give me the proper directions.” 

“Take thy way past the spring till thou 
hast come to a forked path; take that which 
leads to the right ; the one to the left is that 
we followed the other day, and will lead thee 
wrong ; be sure, then, to take the one to the 
right, which will lead thee to the Swede’s, Jon 
Jonson’s. A little beyond is the home of Ta- 
quana ; one of the Swede’s children will gladly 
show thee the way.” 


io6 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

“ And if I see any fine peaches, I will bring* 
thee some.” 

“Thou wilt find some unusually good ones 
at the Indian’s. Don’t get lost, daughter.” 

“ Nay, I will easily find my way, and be 
back by noon.” And Dorothy set off in the 
pleasant September weather, quite pleased to 
take the jaunt. The country around, although 
sparsely settled, was sufficiently safe if one 
kept to the beaten paths, which were sure to 
lead to some sort of a clearing. Here would 
be found a little farm belonging to a Swede, 
or, perhaps, to some peaceful Indian who had 
learned civilized ways. These farms were sur- 
rounded with cornfields and peach orchards, 
vegetable gardens and vineyards, showing 
thriftiness and industry. 

Dorothy traveled on, light of foot, seeing 
a hundred things by the wayside which 
attracted her attention. Strange plants, un- 
familiar birds and trees, of which she had no 
knowledge. “ At this rate,” she said to her- 
self, “ I shall easily reach the Swede’s in an 
hour. Yon Yonson, that is the name. It is 
so funny that their j’s are ally's. I must write 
Jasper and tell him how brave I am to — ” 
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


107 


rustling among the dry leaves, which had 
already begun to scatter themselves. 

Dorothy stood still. Then she laughed. 
“ Only a squirrel or a frightened rabbit !” she 
exclaimed aloud. “ How foolish of me, just as 
I was praising myself for bravery. Ah, pride 
must have a fall.” Still she did not proceed, 
but stood still to gain courage, which, however, 
entirely forsook her, as a large black snake 
glided out of the weeds and lay a waving, sinu- 
ous line directly across her path. 

Dorothy gave one terrified scream and took 
to her heels, running back along the path over 
which she had just traveled, never once look- 
ing back. But suddenly she stood still, trans- 
fixed with fright, for she saw at a little distance 
a strange, wolfish-looking creature trotting up 
the path. It was “out of the frying-pan into 
the fire.” She threw a hurried glance over her 
shoulder, then ran in the direction toward 
which she had been going a few minutes 
before. There lay the snake, now nicely coiled 
in the path. To pass him was something the 
girl could not bring herself to do. • Again she 
looked over her shoulder ; the creature, which 
she fancied must be some wild beast, was 
nearly upon her, coming on, she thought, faster 


io8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


and faster. In desperation the terrified girl 
sprang into the woods, and to her horror the 
animal also, turned and followed her. She ran 
till she was exhausted, and then, as a last 
resort, breathlessly began to climb a tree, the 
lower limbs of which were easily reached. Set- 
tling herself in a wide notch and clinging to the 
branches, she at last gathered courage enough 
to peer cautiously down to see if the animal 
could reach her. He was sniffing around and 
making short leaps against the rugged trunk, 
but, at last, lay down, his red tongue lolling 
out. Dorothy crouched closer in the branches. 
“ It cannot climb, anyway,” she said ; “ but, oh 
dear, how long must I stay here?” After a 
while the creature got up and put his paws 
against the tree, wagging his tail in a most 
amiable manner, so that Dorothy’s terror 
began to leave her, and she examined more 
closely, to discover that it was only a poor 
Indian dog, which, from sheer friendliness, had 
followed her. He uttered no sound, and 
Dorothy remembered her mother telling her 
that the Indian dogs did not bark. She was 
still a little afraid, but the poor creature looked 
so forlorn and really seemed in no way savage, 
so Dorothy concluded she would venture down. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 109 

She scrambled to the ground, and timidly 
patted the dog on the head. At this unwonted 
attention he licked her hand and looked up with 
gratitude. After these advances Dorothy felt 
rather glad of the companionship, and was a 
little ashamed of her former alarms. She 
began to walk slowly along through the woods 
in order to reach the path she had left, the dog 
following close at her heels. But although she 
kept on and on, she came to no path, and look 
where she would, there was nothing to be seen 
but tree after tree rising in endless monotony 
all around her. 

“ Oh, dog,” she said aloud in perplexity, 
“ I wish, since thou canst not bark, that thou 
couldst speak and tell me the way,” but the dog 
only wagged his tail and looked up into her 
face as if to discover her meaning. “ If I were 
blessed with such a nose as thine,” continued 
Dorothy, “I would needs but put it to the 
ground and follow it home, or if I were blessed 
with the ear of an Indian, I could place that to 
the ground and so find my way, but I have only 
the nose and ears of an English girl, and eyes 
which take affright too quickly, else I might 
have marked my way by signs, such as the 
Indians take to guide them.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


IIO 


She wandered on further, only again to 
stand and gaze into the labyrinth of forest 
around her. Finally, it came to a point when 
she could no longer deceive herself. She was 
actually lost in the depths of the wilderness, 
and she sat down on a stone and cried. She 
was, in reality, not more than three miles from 
the village, and had wandered in a circle, but 
this she did not know, and felt that each step 
took her further from any habitation. She was 
very tired, and very miserable. The tears, 
which would not be stayed, trickled forlornly 
down her cheeks, the dog, meanwhile, looking 
at her uneasily, and as she continued to sit 
there, he finally put his tail between his legs and 
ran off, once or twice standing still and looking 
back, but Dorothy’s head was resting on her 
hands, her eyes downcast, and when at last she 
looked up the dog had disappeared. 

“I wish he had stayed,” thought the poor 
litde wanderer ; “he was some company. Per- 
haps I ought to have followed him. Why didn’t 
I ? No doubt he belongs somewhere not far 
away. Maybe he will come back. I’d better sit 
right here, for all the walking I have done has 
brought me nowhere. But suppose he shouldn’t 
come back. I might stay here and starve to 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


hi 


death.’ ’ It was a very mournful thought, and the 
lost girl did not like to consider it, but tried to 
make the best of the situation. 

However, the hours wore on, and no suc- 
cor came, and as it grew more and more doubt- 
ful that anyone would find her, she began to 
walk again. A city-bred girl she had not 
thought of making notes of the points of the 
compass by means of the sun, and did not know 
whether north, south, east or west should be her 
way. She was, oh, so hungry, but there was 
nothing to eat ; it was too late for berries, too 
early for grapes or for nuts, both of which 
needed a touch of frost before they were eat- 
able. Once or twice a beautiful deer sprang 
across her pathway, and at sight of her stood 
still in surprise for a moment, then bounded 
away into the thicket. 

It was growing dark in the forest when the 
weary little maid heard a strange sort of a 
sound. She could not make out what it was. 
A sort of rhythmic wail, made by human voices, 
she at last decided it was, and she ran toward 
the place from which the sound proceeded, 
pausing every little while to listen. 

As she drew nearer she discovered that 
many women’s voices were united in a strange 


112 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


chant, the long wails being interrupted by a 
sharp, short whoop from certain male voices, 
and Dorothy, at last, issuing from the woods, 
came upon a gathering of Indians who were 
evidently celebrating some sort of a festival, for 
they were painted up to the last degree. Men, 
women and children gathered in a great circle. 
Two men were shaking gourds filled with peb- 
bles ; with these they kept time to the chant, 
and two old warriors with strange, jerky move- 
ments were walking around the circle. 

Dorothy was so filled with wonder at what 
she saw that she nearly forgot her terror, and 
stood almost as motionless as some of the 
painted Indians before her. 

“Ah-oo ! Oo-ah!” wailed the women. 

“ Ugh ! Ugh !” came the short, interrupting 
shout of the men, while the rattling gourds kept 
up a monotonous clamor. 

Suddenly there was a wild cry, as four war- 
riors sprang into the circle, and all rushed back 
to give more room ; so that Dorothy found her- 
self borne along with the others, and discovered 
that she could not draw back if she would. Her 
presence, therefore, became known, and by 
signs she made herself sufficiently understood 
to convey the fact that she was hungry, that 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Ir 3 

she was lost, that she was tired, and a slender 
Indian girl was deputized to take her to a lodge 
and attend to her wants. Then she was led 
back to witness the ceremonies connected with, 
nothing less than one of the great corn 
festivals. 

Dorothy still felt a little timid, despite the 
kindness shown her, and she kept close to her 
guide, but looked with all her eyes. 

Such queer performances the English girl 
had never seen. Such hideous-looking old 
warriors, so ferociously growling, dancing, 
whooping ; such horrible old hags ; such strange 
fantastic behavior, and such puzzling rites. If 
the truth were known, the uninvited visitor 
should have felt flattered at being a guest on 
such an important occasion. Yet she could not 
disguise her fear, which amused the little, black- 
eyed maid by her side, who made all sorts of 
grimaces at her, in her glee at the idea of fear 
on such a joyous occasion. 

At last there came an end to it all, and 
Dorothy was conducted to a wigwam, where 
she rested for the night. It was not remarka- 
ble for cleanliness or comfort, but it was a safe 
shelter, she believed, and vastly better than the 
wild woods. She was very thankful for it, and 
8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


1 14 

was also thankful for the breakfast eaten from 
dishes of bark and cedar wood. The best was 
set before the guest, who, in a circle of squaws 
and children squatted on the ground, and ate 
with the others from the same dish. 

By repeating the words “Taquana, Jon 
Jonson ” she conveyed the information that she 
would be directed to one of these. 

With a wise nod, the Indian girl, with whom 
by this time she was on quite friendly terms, 
volunteered to show her the way, and they 
started off in exactly the opposite direction 
from that which Dorothy fancied to be the right 
one, and finally the little, lean, brown guide 
came to a halt and pointed ahead. Then, with- 
out a word, she took to her heels, and, with a 
laughing glance over her shoulder, left Dorothy 
standing. It was with a long-drawn sigh of 
relief that she left the woods and came out into 
an open piece of ground. Before her was a 
comfortable house of logs built on a foundation 
of stone, a harvested held of corn, a flourishing 
garden and orchard. There were at least eight 
or ten little yellow-headed children running 
around the farm house, and at Dorothy’s knock 
a girl of about her own age, blue-eyed, fair- 
haired and rosy-cheeked, met her. She could 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


115 

speak only a little English, but she understood 
Dorothy’s errand. 

“Yosef, he go by you,” she told her, and 
called to a tall, swarth boy, at work in the 
garden. 

“Yosef can talk more good Englis as me,” 
continued the rosy-cheeked lass, and the three 
stood smiling at each other. 

“ I am so glad you can speak English,” said 
Dorothy. “ I feel as if I have been among the 
Indians for a life time ;” and she told her expe- 
rience and why she had strayed so far out of 
her way. 

“I tink me haf de oin’men’,” said the girl. 
“Yosef Gran’mudder is Taquana. You no 
haf ” She stopped and looked at Joseph. 

“ Tina say you haf no need go to Taquana. 
She can gif you de oin’men’ ; and we haf also 
good peach, if you lige. You vait few minute.” 

Dorothy stood smiling at the group of 
children who gathered shyly around her. And 
presently a pleasant-faced woman, with hair 
like Tina’s, came out. She nodded and beamed, 
and invited Dorothy inside by unmistakable 
gestures of kindness and cordiality. Dorothy, 
however, was too anxious to get back to her 
mother, and only waited till Joseph should 


ii6 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

appear. He came laden down with all sorts 
of gifts. “I am go you t’ rough de voodths,” 
he said. “ You are losing de self if I am not.” 

After much smiling and nodding Dorothy 
departed, feeling very safe with this new guide. 

“Thou art very good to come with me,” 
she said to the boy. “Art thou Mr. Jonson’s 
son ? ” 

“No, I am de son of his frendt. My fader 
is vite mans. My mudder is Inyan vomans ; 
but my fader is deadt, an’ I am since lif by 
Yon Yonson.” 

“And then the pretty girl with the yellow 
hair is not thy sister ? ” 

“No; she is Christine.” 

“ Wilt thou bring her to see me some time ? ” 

“You lif by Ooplandt?” 

“Yes; near the river. We are going to 
have a house after a while. I came only a 
little while ago.” 

“ I see te pig sheep you kom py, may be.” 

Dorothy knitted her brows. Just what kind 
of an animal a “pig sheep” was, she did not 
know. She had seen so many strange things in 
this queer country. She looked up inquiringly. 

“De sheep is kom oop de reewer dree 
veek aco.” 





■ 

















































































































































Joseph drew forth a small bark canoe from among the weeds, and, help- 
ing Dorothy into it, paddled across — Page i 1 7 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 117 

“ Oh, yes ; I did come in that. Were you 
there when she landed ? ” 

The boy nodded. Then he told her “ Pen- 
jam in Daylor is kom by us las’ nightd. He is 
say you are los’.” 

“Oh, were they looking for me?” Then 
my mother must be in great alarm ? Come, 
let us walk fast. Have we far to go ? ” 

“No; she is yust dere. We are kom de 
near vay. I am dake you agross little sdream.” 
And Dorothy, looking, saw before her a small 
creek. But this did not deter Joseph, who, 
striding down to the brink, drew forth a small 
bark canoe from among the weeds, and, help- 
ing Dorothy into it, paddled her over to the 
opposite shore. To her surprise she found 
they were very near the spring to which she 
daily went for water. “ Oh, this is a shorter 
way,” she cried. “I know where I am now. 
I shall like very much if thou wilt take me to 
my mother ; but I do not want to trespass on 
thy kindness.” 

“Dat make noding. I lige go by you.” 
And he strode along by her side. 

It was evident from the greetings they 
received, as they went along, that Dorothy’s 
absence had been very generally known in 


ii8 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

the community, and had caused considerable 
anxiety. 

“ Here kom Meest Penjamin Daylor,” 
announced Joseph, as a middle-aged man 
approached. 

“ Thou art returned, thou poor lost one,” 
he exclaimed. “Thy mother will be right 
rejoiced to see thee. We traced thee to the 
Indian camp, and knew that thou wert safe, this 
morning. How didst thou come to lose thy 
way?” 

Dorothy told her tale as the man walked 
along with them. 

“I will see thee safe to thy mother,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, there is no need,” returned the girl, 
quickly. “ Joseph is with me, and I know the 
way well.” 

The man gave her a little sidelong glance. 
“I think thou niayst venture to allow me to 
go,” he rejoined ; and Dorothy made no further 
objection. 

She rushed on ahead, however, when she 
came in sight of the little hut. “ Oh, mother, 
mother,” she cried, “Here I am! here I am ! 
Where art thou?” And, entering the low 
door, she threw herself in her mothers arms. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 119 

“Oh, mother, mother, art thou to be forever 
losing me ? I have had such adventures. I 
saw a snake, and ran from that ; and I thought 
I was pursued by a wolf, but it turned out to 
be a dog ; and at last, when it was dark, I came 
upon some Indians, who cared for me till 
morning, when they set me on my way as far 
as Jon Jonson’s, and now Joseph and Benja- 
min Taylor are without. Am I not a lag-foot, 
and art thou not glad to see me, mother dear? ” 

“ Oh, my dear, how glad ! I feared some 
ill had befallen thee. Friends were out all 
night seeking thee, and came upon the Indian 
camp just after thy departure from it. There 
they learned of thy welfare. I felt it to be the 
occasion of a sign to me, but now I see the 
hand of the Lord in it.” 

“ Oh, mother, I have seen so many strange 
and curious things. I shall be disposed to 
write them all to Jasper. And, oh, I did get 
some of the ointment at the Jonsons, for I 
feared to see the old Indian, Taquana, without 
first letting thee know I was safe. The Swedes 
were so good, and the Indians, too. I shall 
never fear them again. Joseph has brought a 
load of stores for us — bread and smoked shad, 
and peaches, and I know not what else, so we 


120 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


shall have a feast this day. I like those 
Jonsons ; they are so kind and so cheerful. 
And there is a nice girl there. Her name is 
Christine, and she is so pretty and rosy. I 
wish thou couldst see her.” 

But the appearance of Benjamin Taylor 
and Joseph put an end to Dorothy’s talk, and 
this was the beginning of a friendship with the 
Jonsons, from which eventually came strange 
developments. 





CHAPTER VIII 

THE GOVERNOR’S ARRIVAL 

“ Didst thou see for thyself, Joseph ?” Doro- 
thy asked, eagerly. She was standing on the 
margin of the creek looking off at the water. 

“ Inyan tell me,” replied Joseph. “ We all 
kom town py de vater for see him. Efrypody 
is egcited apout it.” 

“’Tis really so, mother. Mother the Wel- 
come has arrived at New Castle, Joseph says. 
Everyone is making preparations to receive 
the Governor, who is coming up here. Oh, 
mother, there are many more come out from 
Old England. I wonder if friends will be 
among them. Shalt thou not be glad to see 
them ? Joseph thinks that we may look for Mr. 
Penn and his companions to-day.” 

Hester James looked up from her work 

with a smile. “ Tis a good word to hear, my 

121 


122 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


daughter. I doubt not the times will improve 
apace, for William Penn hath larger plans for 
his Holy Experiment. I think we may see 
Richard Townsend and John Longhurst, and, 
doubtless, others.” 

“ Oh !” Dorothy clapped her hands softly 
together. “We shall be quite a townful. I 
wonder where William Penn will lodge ? ” 

“At the Essex House, doubtless. Robert 
Wade, as thou knowest, entertains the greater 
number of strangers who visit us, and has shel- 
tered many a Friend, who else would have 
found a chilly welcome on these shores, with no 
roof to sit under.” 

“T’ere will pe a larche gaderin’,” said 
Joseph. “ Efrypody koms town see t’e new 
beeple.” 

“ Of course they will. Is Christine coming?” 

Joseph nodded gravely. “ I dink dey kom 
now.” 

And sure enough the shores of Chester 
Creek began to show many curious and expect- 
ant faces. There were the broad-faced Swedes, 
in their coon-skin caps with little flaps. John 
Stille, Peter Rambo and Andras Bengsten 
among them. There were the grave Quakers, 
with more cheerful countenances than they 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


123 


were wont to wear. There, too, were compa- 
nies of Indians in full feather, as curious as any 
to see what all this might mean. A day in late 
October it was, and the autumn foliage was 
showing its richest tints along the shores of the 
stream, up which the boat now slowly made its 
way. Nearer, nearer, it came, while the little 
company at the landing waited on tip-toe with 
expectation. 

It was a handsome, graceful man, but thirty- 
eight years of age, whom Dorothy saw step 
ashore as her mother whispered, “ 'Tis William 
Penn himself.” The girl had pictured an older 
and more sedate individual than this courtly 
person, who, dressed not more plainly than her 
Uncle Humphrey, now advanced, and amid 
welcomes on every side was piloted to Robert 
Wade’s house, his friends surrounding him. 

Dorothy, Christine and Joseph stood look- 
ing after him. Benjamin Taylor at the side of 
Hester James remarked, “ He is a well-favored 
man, but less grave and sedate than seems suit- 
able for one attempting a ‘ Holy Experi- 
ment.’ ” 

“ I had thought him older,” remarked Doro- 
thy to Joseph. 

“And I,” returned he. 


124 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“But,’ 1 added Dorothy, thoughtfully, “I 
think him a fair sort of a Governor, and one 
which suits me better than had he a lean and 
sour visage like some I could mention. He 
does not fear to smile, yet has he dignity withal. 
Yes, I am glad that such is our Proprietary.” 

It seemed from this day that what had been 
before but an uncertain lodging in the wilder- 
ness, a sort of picnicing on the shores of 
Upland Creek, now at once became an actual 
and tangible settlement for the Quakers. 

It was a few days later that Dorothy heard 
Benjamin Taylor say : “ William Penn hath 
decided to name this place Chester. ’Twas so 
suggested by his friend, Robert Pearson.” 

“ I thought it was Upland. How can he 
change it?” asked Dorothy. 

“ ’Tis his,” replied Benjamin, “by right of 
purchase ; and, methinks, Chester a right fair 
name. How likest thou that of Philadelphia — 
for that the new city will be called ?” 

“ City ! ” Dorothy opened her eyes — “ in a 
wilderness ? ” 

“ ’Twill not be long so. The Proprietary 
hath gone up the river to establish the city ; at 
least, to make his presence known, for the lay- 
ing out of lots was begun by Thomas Holme 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 125 

some time since. How likest thou the notion of 
dwelling in more comfort, Dorothy?” 

“I should like it,” returned she. “The 
cave seems to me ill for winter weather.” 

“ An’ so ’tis. Thou shalt not bide there 
long. Thou knowest that before the Proprie- 
tary came, already William Markham, his 
cousin, had, with the commissioners, devised 
properties and laid plans for the making of a 
city, and more than one house will go up within 
short space. ’Tis William Penn’s intention to 
make us a green country town, sweet and 
wholesome. Thou wilt be pleased to dwell 
there, Dorothy,” and he gave a little smiling 
glance at Mrs. James. 

“ And do we go there soon ?” 

“ I think ere many weeks. Shouldst like 
to go by boat with thy mother and me to see 
this new town ? Thou hast been to Shacka- 
maxon meeting, and ’tis but half a mile further 
that the Proprietary intends his town.” 

“I should like much to go,” returned Doro- 
thy, her eyes sparkling. 

“The Welcome has landed her passengers, 
some one hundred, and more are to follow, so 
that I anticipate a goodly company will soon 
be established. I learn that Thomas Holme has 


126 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


already laid out many fair streets uniform from 
the waters edge to the country bounds, and 
that gardens and orchards will surround the 
houses. ” 

In fancy Dorothy saw an already flourishing 
village. But what was her surprise when she 
beheld the rugged, bold bank of the river more 
unsettled than at Chester. Nevertheless, there 
were more persons than she realized already 
arrived at the site. Log houses and caves 
stretched along the water’s front, and frame- 
works of houses had been put ashore at Dock 
Creek, ready to be transported to the lots 
apportioned to their owners. 

She heard many pieces of news concerning 
the newly-arrived emigrants ; of how Richard 
Townsend had a new baby son born on board 
the Welcome ; of how Dennis Rochford had 
lost his two daughters, and how many others 
had been smitten by small-pox during the voy- 
age. She saw Giles Knight, his wife and son, 
whom she had often met at home in Gloucester- 
shire, so that it truly did appear as if, after all, 
there was quite a fair sprinkling of persons to 
begin the town. Dorothy noticed that only the 
poorer people dressed so very plainly, and that 
m,any had servants and were well supplied with 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


127 


clothing and provisions, and possessed luxuries, 
although they were living in the log huts and 
hastily constructed caves which they had pre- 
pared before starting to build upon their 
purchased plots of ground. 

There was one house just begun, to which 
Benjamin Taylor directed the attention of 
Dorothy and her mother. The building was 
pleasantly situated, and promised to be com- 
fortable. It was of brick and about thirty feet 
long, with a partition through the middle. The 
large fireplace had a stone hearth and the 
doors of riven stuff had deerskin hinges and 
wooden latches and bars. 

“And is it to be ours ?” asked Dorothy. 
“ Shall we live here, mother ?” 

“We shall live here,” she answered. 

“ It is not near so fine as Humphrey’s 
Hall,” said Dorothy ; “ but ’tis much better 
than the cave.” 

“ ’Tis much better than a foul gaol,” said 
Dorothy’s mother that night, as her daughter 
drew comparisons between the new home and 
the old. 

“ And when shall we go there to live ?” 

For answer Hester stooped down and 
kissed the girl on the forehead. 


128 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Mother,” said Dorothy, “hast thou had 
no word at all from home ? I had hoped for it 
by the Welcome .” 

“ No word, my child.” 

Dorothy looked sober. “I should like well 
to know how fares my uncle and Cousin 
Frances and Margery. Shouldst thou not like 
to hear, mother ?” 

“Aye, I should; but thy uncle is, with- 
out doubt, in a great rage against us all.” 

“ But Cousin Frances might send a line. 
Jasper warned me that he was a sorry letter 
writer, but that when he found courage to ply 
his pen, I should hear from him. I am wonder- 
ing, too, when John Winterthorn will return.” 

“ I think ere long. But, Dorothy, dear 
heart, wast thou not pleased with the new city ? 
It pleases me well, and I hear that William 
Penn hath a purpose of building a fine mansion, 
and that his family will reside here with him.” 

“ Oh, mother, then 'twill become quite like 
Bristol.” 

“ Mayhap, in time.” 

Dorothy sat thoughtfully considering the 
subject, then she said : “ Mother, William 
Penn seems very unlike other Friends, doth 
not he ?” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


129 


‘‘He has spent much time at courts. 
Withal he is a good and tender man. Benja- 
min Taylor tells me that the Indians are well 
pleased with his lowliness, and that he has 
met them in a fair spirit, which promises well 
for peace, and that he hopes to enter into a 
compact with them which shall be a solemn and 
binding one. Yet one other told me that our 
Proprietary hath an excess of levity for a grave 
minister. Dorothy,” the mother suddenly broke 
off, then she spoke hurriedly, “I have an exer- 
cise to warn thee of being prepared for some- 
thing that may disturb thee. I would tell thee, 
but I think since to-morrow is First Day thou 
hadst best learn it then when thou canst be 
under the control of the spirit more readily, 
and, perchance, find peace in words thou 
mayst hear from those older and wiser.” 

“ Oh, mother, tell me now.” 

But she shook her head. “ ’Tis best not 
so.” 

She sat quite still for some time with a very 
thoughtful look on her face, and then she 
spoke again. “I am moved to tell thee now, 
Dorothy. Perchance ’tis better that thou and 
I should meet this together. I have seen for 
a considerable time that I should take Benja- 


130 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


min Taylor to be my husband. He said to 
me some weeks ago that it opened in him 
from the Lord that the thing should be accom- 
plished, and our intentions in marriage have 
been laid before Friends privately, and will be 
so publicly in meeting to-morrow. Benjamin 
has been three years widowed, he has no 
children, he is a man of fair character, and of 
excellent parts.” 

“ Oh, mother !” Dorothy’s eyes were big 
with astonishment ; then she began to cry 
softly, her head in her mother’s lap. After a 
time she looked up, saying wistfully, “and 
that is not our house at all. It is his, and I 
was so happy to think we were to have our 
own dear little home ; oh, mother !” 

“ Does it grieve thee, then, my dear one ?” 

“ Oh, mother, how else could it? I feel as 
if thou wert suddenly taken from me.” 

“ Oh, my beloved child, I feel it is for me 
to receive the urging of the voice. Thou and 
I alone, in a strange land, shall we not fare 
better if a man, good and true, be the house- 
holder to give us protection? Moreover, he is 
one of our society, and I believe will uphold us 
by the power of his own belief.” 

Dorothy’s face was hidden in her mother’s 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


131 

lap. The thought of what was to take place 
made her feel very desolate. She believed 
Benjamin Taylor to be a good man. He had 
been a friend in need from the very first. How 
many a gift of fresh fish, of wild pigeons, of 
venison had he brought them. How often 
his boat had been at their service, and his 
hands been the ones to gather their fuel. Yes, 
they would be better off, but the girl felt, all 
at once, as if her mother were from henceforth 
less wholly hers. She experienced some of 
the loneliness which her uncle must feel, and 
her thoughts went out yearningly to him. She 
had left him — the kind old man — left him all 
alone, and now she was punished for it, she 
believed. After she had crept under her covers 
that night she wept softly, with a homesick 
longing for Humphrey’s Hall, for her uncle, 
for old Margery. “I want to go home, I want 
to go home,” she whispered, and, strange to 
say, the next day came an opportunity, if she 
had wished to take it, for when they returned 
from meeting there was John Winterthorn. 

Dorothy had gone through the ordeal of 
hearing the intentions of marriage between 
Hester James and Benjamin Taylor read out, 
had been obliged to listen to her future step- 


132 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


father’s confidences to her mother ; had tried 
to seem pleased, but could only be truthful, in 
replying to his questioning, if she were satis 
fied, by saying, “ I will try to be, but I am ill 
at ease as yet.” 

“ It will be upon thee to feel satisfied, when 
thou art accustomed to it,” said Benjamin Tay- 
lor, complacently. 

But Dorothy was very sore of heart when 
she reached home, and John Winterthorn, with 
his one-sided weather-beaten face, was a more 
delightful sight than any that could have met 
her just then ; and half laughing, half crying, 
she threw herself into his arms, saying, “ Oh, 
John ! oh, John ! how good to see thee again. 
Hast thou had a sad, wearisome journey?” 

“Well, mistress, it has not been the love- 
liest in the world. Through the forest have I 
come all the way from Maryland.” 

“ Oh, tell me about it. Is it a long way? 
and how didst thou come? ” 

“The manner of it was in this wise. We 
took horse at the head of the Tred-haven 
creek, and on to the head of Miles River. We 
passed that and rode on to Wye River, then 
to Chester River. We crossed Sassafras River 
next in canoes, and our horses swam alongside. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


133 


After that we crossed Bohemia River in like 
manner, and finally arrived at the village of 
New Castle ; from thence ’twas easy here.” 

“ So much riding, and so many rivers. And 
where didst thou rest at night? ” 

“ Sometimes we lay in the woods, and 
again in the Indian wigwams.” 

“And the Indians were kind? Like ours 
here ? ” 

“Yes, hospitable they were. Such as they 
had they shared with us, and even lay mats for 
us to sleep upon. But ’tis a vast, wild country, 
mistress. We traveled for days at a time 
without sight of man or woman. Sure, ’tis a 
spacious country this. But methinks none are 
better off in it than those of the Maryland 
colony, for game, oysters and much highly 
delectable food is at their very doors. I never 
knew such plenty of tasty victuals.” 

“ ’Tis so here. Thou shouldst see the flocks 
of wild pigeons, and the fish, such wonderful 
draughts from the streams. We have not 
starved.” 

“Yes; but I like the Maryland colony 
somewhat better, perchance because ’tis older 
and more settled where I have been.” 

“And didst thou prosper in thy quest ? ” 


134 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


John shook his head. “ I have but satisfied 
myself. Yet that is much.” 

“ And wilt thou now tell us why thou hadst 
to go?” 

“ I will. You and your mother. How fares 
she, mistress?” 

“ My mother? She is in right good health. 
And oh, John” — Dorothy’s head went down 
on the man’s rough sleeve — “ she is about to 
take to herself another husband, and I am so 
miserable.” 

John laid his hand on the girl’s soft hair. 
She had so many times, as a little lass, come to 
him with her childish griefs, and he had been 
able to comfort her by making some new toy, 
or carrying her off to the farm to be petted and 
coddled ; but for this grief he had no remedy, 
although he said, re-assuringly, “ That may be 
well for her, Mistress Dorothy, if he be a fair 
good man she is to wed.” 

“ He is, I believe he is, albeit a little stern 
and unyielding, methinks. He is one of the 
Taylor’s from Flintshire, and speaks me very 
fair. Thou knowest Friends are most particu- 
lar in providing for children of former husbands 
or wives, and I am not afraid of being uncared 
for. ’Tis only that I feel as if my mother were 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


135 


more than half lost to me. She is gentle and 
loving as of yore ; but she has a longing after 
Benjamin Taylor, and I am no longer first with 
her, and she is beginning but lately to take on 
his opinions, which are not such as make me 
happy ; so, John, I have been so homesick, so 
homesick.” 

“Better go back with me,” said John, his 
face brightening. “Your mother will be estab- 
lished now, and will surely need you less than 
your uncle.” 

“Ah, I know not, I know not ; I am sore 
distraught. I have realized this last day or two 
how my uncle must have felt, and my heart 
yearns for him exceedingly.” 

“ So, then, mistress, I think your return 
would settle you all. I must see this Master 
Taylor ; if he be all you say I shall be surely 
glad to take back news of your mother’s settle- 
ment. I hope he may be a man of right 
behavior.” 

“ I think he is, even if he be not of a lively 
disposition. He is building a good house in 
the new town of Philadelphia. I think, how- 
ever, he will not wait till spring to take my 
mother from this cave, for he has a good log 
house near Richard Townsend’s new mill.” 


136 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“That is better still. I should feel sorely to 
leave either of you in so damp and gloomy a 
habitation.” 

“Ah, but John, ’tis not so dreadful. Thou 
shouldst see some of these same caves, the 
family plate their owners display, and things 
comforting, and even fine, fetched from home.” 

“ Nevertheless, I would fain see you back in 
Humphrey’s Hall. ’Tis rarely pleasant there 
now.” 

Dorothy sighed. It must be rarely pleas- 
ant, she thought, the sun shining on the old 
garden, the flowers abloom in their autumn 
glory, all things well and luxuriously ordered. 
It would be very good to be back there. 

“But where bides your mother?” asked 
John. 

“ She comes now with Benjamin Taylor. 
He, you see, yonder in the leathern breeches 
and woolen waistcoat. He does not dress so 
bravely as my uncle, for he is of the opinion 
that plain attire best becomes a Friend. Thou 
shouldst have been at the meeting, John, ’twas 
so large, bigger than any we have had here. 
Ah, they still linger, we will go and meet 
them.” 



CHAPTER IX 
John’s quest 

A pretty flush was on the cheek of the fair 
Quakeress, as she came forward to greet John, 
and she told of her approaching marriage with 
an almost girlish eagerness, while the grave 
face of Benjamin Taylor beamed with a quiet 
satisfaction, as he looked at the little woman 
by his side. 

“Thou wilt stay till we are married, wilt 
thou not, John ? ” asked Hester. 

“ And when will that be ? ” 

“ In two weeks.” 

“I had thought to take the first returning 
vessel.” 

“Oh, thou must see the new city,” broke 
in Benjamin Taylor’s deep voice, “and the 
many Friends ; why they are coming by hun- 
dreds. ’Tis wonderful how the ships come in 

137 



138 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

laden, ’twill not be long before we are a big 
colony. And, ah, ’tis better to breathe the 
free air in a new country, than to be premunired 
and cast into a vile gaol for but thinking and 
acting as the spirit directs.” 

John sighed, he longed for the green lanes 
of Old England, for his accustomed place about 
Humphrey’s Hall. 

“ Thou wilt stay and share our usual meal 
with us, wilt thou not, Benjamin ?” said Hester, 
as the sturdy Quaker turned to go. 

“ No, I think I will not, Hester. Thou wilt 
have thine own concerns to talk over with thy 
good friend. I will return anon,” and his stal- 
wart figure disappeared, followed fondly by 
Hester s gaze. 

It was when the hominy and venison, the 
smoked shad and johnny-cake, the cranberry 
sauce and cider had been consumed, that John 
told his reasons for leaving home. 

“You remember, or maybe you don’t 
remember, Master Hilary?” he said to Hester. 

“I do not remember him, John. Thou 
knowest he had long before left home when I 
arrived at Humphrey’s Hall.” 

“ So he had — so he had. He left before 
your day. Why, you were scarce born then, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


139 


for Master Marmaduke was but a baby. 
Well, he joined Lord Baltimore’s colony. A 
lad for adventure he was ; full of courage, 
but a little wild — a little wild. He would be, 
let me see — yes, nigh on to sixty. He was but 
little more than a year younger than Master 
Humphrey. By my faith, time flies fast ! I 
remember what a hearty way he had, and that 
was why he was his father’s pride, always so ready 
to laugh and be merry. As I was saying, he 
went away, and after he had gone — six months, 
maybe — came a man from the village, asking 
had we heard from him ; ‘ for,’ says he, * Mas- 
ter Hilary married my daughter Joan, and she 
went to the provinces with him, joined him on 
shipboard.’ You could ha’ knocked me down 
with a feather. Not a word of it had he whis- 
pered at the Hall. * An’,’ says the man, ‘ I’ve 
a letter from her sayin’ she has a little son. 
That was bad business, for, after Master Hilary 
came the son, and Master Marmaduke left out 
of his rights. I went to the little church where 
they were married, over in Wiltshire it was, 
and there was the record straight enough ; but 
I told nothing, for Joe Richards died soon after, 
lost on his way to the provinces to join his 
daughter ; and, as time went on, there came 


140 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


the news of Master Hilary’s death from one 
who knew him at home, and who was his neigh- 
bor in Maryland, but not a word was there of 
wife or child. So I chuckled to myself, for I 
knew none had the secret but me, now that 
Richards was dead, and I was never going to 
stand in the way of Master Marmaduke. ’Tis 
like as not they’re all dead, thinks I ; and if not, 
we should have heard. Off in that God-for- 
saken Indian-rid country, they’re like to be 
dead long ago ; and I settled my conscience. 
But the conscience woke that day when Rachel 
Townsend did so berate me. I thought, per- 
haps, she knew, and I was in quaking fear lest 
she did, and I said to myself, I will ferret out 
the matter, and that is why I came over.” 

“ And what didst thou learn ? ” asked Doro- 
thy, with curiosity. 

“ That ’twas all true. Master Hilary’s wife 
died before him. He and his boy were killed 
by the Indians. I went down to the Maryland 
colony and searched out those who knew, and 
’tis true, not a doubt has been felt since he was 
killed with the lad.” 

“Then the boy lived till then? Are they 
sure he, too, was killed ? ” asked Hester James. 

“ Without doubt, so said the man who sent 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 141 

the message home thirty-four years ago. He 
is one William Osborne, whom I found still 
living on his place by the Bush River. A sad 
hunt I had for him, and I even proved his 
words by traveling to the Isle of Kent to find 
another who knew of the matter. And now my 
conscience is clear, and Master Jasper Preston 
is the heir. Humphrey’s Hall goes to him as 
next of kin in the male line. ’Tis strange how 
changes do come with the years. Here the old 
place belonged first to the Humphreys, and 
came to the Squire’s father through his mother, 
who was a Humphrey.” 

“ Yes, I know, for the James’ are from Staf- 
ford,” spoke up Dorothy. 

“They are, but further back from Wales, 
and your great-grandfather was cousin to his 
wife and came by it properly, just as it goes to 
Master Jasper as next male kin. His grand- 
father and yours were brothers, and it came 
that way. 

It seemed strange to listen to all this in a 
land, and among people, where rank and dis- 
tinction of family counted as nothing ; but for 
some reason the conversation brought back 
to Dorothy a vivid picture of her old home, and 
she sighed deeply as John concluded by saying : 


142 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“And now I go back free and honest, and 
I’ll tell the Squire the whole story, and maybe 
he’ll give a welcome to the old man after all, 
for the Squire and me has had our own sorrows 
together, and ’tis my only secret from him. He 

may be glad to see me, especially He 

broke off as he gave a glance at Dorothy, who 
returned it with one of warning, accompanied 
by a little shake of her head. 

She pondered seriously over the problem 
of a return to her uncle, telling herself that 
probably she would not be detained here if she 
expressed a real desire to go, for she was con- 
scious that day by day her mother was drawn 
further away from those things which once 
interested her, and which still interested her 
daughter. Beyond this she had visions of her 
uncle, lonely and loveless, waiting, watching ; 
outwardly harsh and querulous, inwardly kind 
and generous, and at the girl’s solicitation John 
Winterthorn promised to stay till after the 
marriage, that she might be given more time to 
make up her mind. 

“ Say no word of it to my mother as yet,” 
begged Dorothy, “ for ’tis useless to disturb her 
if it should come to naught.” 

Dorothy had a vivid imagination and deep 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


143 

affections. Her love for her mother had always 
been the controlling force of her life, and this 
new candidate for her mother’s attentions and 
interests she could not regard with favor, strug- 
gle as she would. 

“Alas ! I am desperately given over to war- 
rings with myself,” she mourned. “ I am griev- 
ously wicked to loose myself from peace and 
content in this matter. I am bidden to love all ; 
to make an idol of nothing ; to set my affections 
on things above, and none of these things do I. 
My heart is very bad, and I am pernicious in my 
desires for material benefit.” 

So she carried a very solemn face and gave 
much time to that old-time employment, self- 
searching, which, in this case, as in many others, 
was not an advisable thing to do. 

But Dorothy’s mother was not so indifferent 
as the girl imagined ; for once she said, “ Oh, 
mother, I think, perhaps, after all, my uncle 
needs me more than thou. Wouldst thou care 
much if I did return ? ” 

“To the world’s people? Wouldst thou 
do it, Dorothy ? ” 

“ Not if thou didst love me as thou used.” 

“And do I not?” 

“ Nay ; I think not as much.” 


144 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Why, my child ? ” 

“ Because thou hast more confidences with 
Benjamin Taylor than with me, and — ” 

“ ’Tis my duty to him/' 

“ But I need thee. I want thee. I don’t 
want him, too.” 

“ Be not so ungenerous, my child. Surely 
I love thee as ever, but ’tis not thy carnal 
nature which I should be fostering. I should 
keep thy spiritual good before me. Thou hast 
too long been humored and given thine own 
way. Thou knowest it is borne in upon me 
very strongly that this union should be accom- 
plished, not to outwardly advantage, but to 
movings of heavenly powers. It grieves me to 
hear thee wish for thy former vanities.” There 
was a little stiffness in the speech that hurt the 
child, and she brooded over it. She longed 
for the old out-spoken affection. She wanted 
to be called poppet, and pink, and sweeting, 
as she used to be. She wanted to feel her 
uncle’s hand tousle her curls, and to be caught 
in a rough-and-tumble caress. But the curls 
were put smoothly back into plaits, and the 
caresses which once met her on every side, 
now were seldom given, for they “ savored of 
the carnal,” and therefore the little girl spent 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 145 

many a dreary hour, although, as her acquaint- 
ance with the pretty Christine grew warmer, 
she often forgot her sorrows in a visit to the 
Swede’s house. 

“Joseph will take thee to Coquannock,” 
Dorothy told John one morning, “ and mother 
says I may go, too. Joseph is a right fair 
woodsman. Such a one for spearing sturgeon 
and catching fish ; for hunting, and for driving 
a canoe swiftly through the water. He has 
Indian blood in him, and is an odd mixture, for 
he speaks quite glibly our own tongue yet 
with the accent of the Swedes, while he looks, 
and often acts, much like the Indians. And, John, 
thou must see pretty, rosy Christine, with her 
long yellow hair. Thou wilt like the Swedes. 
The Jonsons are my good friends, and Chris- 
tine can now speak quite clearly to me. We 
have very good times together. She wants 
much to see the new city, and we will all go 
to-morrow if thou wilt go, too.” 

“ Right gladly will I go. I shall well like to 
have a glimpse of what William Penn intends. 
’Twill be fair news to take back home.” 

“ Is it not strange, John, that not a word 
have we heard since we left Bristol ? ” 

“ Well, no, mistress. I think we can’t 


146 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


expect the Squire to feel happy over it, besides 
he’s not a ready one with his pen.” 

“ But my Cousin Frances ? ” 

“ True, she might have sent you news, I 
admit.” 

“Well, news or no news, to Philadelphia 
we go to-morrow. I will tell Joseph who waits 
to know.” 

The next morning a canoe was in readiness 
by the shore of Chester Creek. Christine and 
Joseph stood waiting. The swarth face of the 
lad was in strong contrast to that of the fair, 
rosy girl whose abundant yellow hair hanging 
down her back in thick plaits, was her only 
head covering. She dimpled and smiled as 
Dorothy approached. “Ah, Tina,” cried Doro- 
othy, “ I am glad to see thee. I feared some- 
thing might happen to detain thee. This is 
our old friend, John Winterthorn, from Old 
England. Many a time has he rowed me on 
the waters of our dear Avon.” John made a 
low bow, which Tina acknowledged by a greet- 
ing in her pretty broken English. Joseph, too, 
offered a welcome, and before long his deft 
strokes sent the canoe shooting through the 
water, and, although it was a considerable jour- 
ney they were not very long in reaching a spot 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


147 


about four miles above the mouth of the Schuyl- 
kill. Here rose a high, bold shore, called by the 
Indians Coquannock. It was covered with 
lofty pines and was the site chosen for the new 
city. A stream called Dock Creek offered a 
convenient landing place, for a low, sandy shore 
shelved down gently. Upon this the canoe 
was drawn, and the travelers started out to 
explore the infant city. 

There was a long broad walk intended as 
a promenade along the river front, which now 
is filled with busy wharves and landings. The 
bold bluff has disappeared, but the steep 
grade to the Delaware suggests what has 
been. 

A few streets were laid out. Pool Street, 
and Holme Street, and Union Street ; now 
they are known by different names, for, Wil- 
liam Penn, like the rest of his society, did not 
believe in honoring men, even in naming 
streets after them, and to avoid this man-wor- 
ship, trees were chosen as namesakes for the 
new streets. 

A number of houses were going up, each 
with its garden and orchard, promising pleas- 
ant restful homes for the much-enduring 
Quakers. 


14B 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“I dink I can find de house is puilding 
py Penjamin Daylor,” said Joseph. 

“ Oh, yes, we want to see that particu- 
larly,” returned Dorothy ; “ I am sure ’twill be 
very comfortable. Dost thou not think so, 
John?” she said, when they came upon it. 

John examined it critically. “ Comfortable 
enough, no doubt, but not what is your right, 
mistress, by comparison to Humphrey’s Hall; 
yet I doubt not ’twill be a fine city some day. 
I am amazed at the plentifulness of every- 
thing — a deer for two shillings, and a turkey 
for one. I doubt you will starve, and I am 
pleased to see that Richard Townsend has set 
up a mill at Chester Creek.” 

“ He brought the parts ready framed from 
London, and ’ tis already of good use for the 
grinding of corn and the sawing of boards,” 
said Dorothy. “ But we must wander no 
further else we may get lost. We should come 
upon the Schuylkill beyond these woods, were 
we to walk far enough. Do not smile at my 
fears, Joseph. I was lost once.” 

“ Josef nefer get los’,” said Christine, smil- 
ing. “ He know de vay all time. He like 
Inyan.” 

“ So he is. I forgot that; anyhow we must 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


149 


turn back, for I do not want to get into the 
swamp.” 

“Dere kom many wild keese to datpond,” 
said Joseph, pointing out a sheet of water 
lying where now are streets and houses, in 
what is a crowded way down town. The 
boy suddenly leaned down. “Dere has been 
teer and durkey here dis morning,” he said, 
pointing out tracks in their pathway. 

“ Deer and turkey ! I do think turkey the 
most delicious food. Do you not think so, 
John ? And does not Joseph see everything 
quickly ? I should not have known to look for 
such things. Ah ! here we are coming back 
again to where we started. That is the Blue 
Anchor Tavern, John. It is kept by one named 
Guest, and ’tis there, Benjamin Taylor tells me, 
that William Penn and his friends landed the 
other day. This Dock Creek makes a fine 
landing. They say it is to be the city dock 
for vessels. Christine, thou hast seen our Gov- 
ernor ? Is he not a fine man ?” 

“I like him,” returned Christine. “He 
spik by me one day.” 

“ Oh, did he ? I wish he would speak to 

ft 

me. 

The little canoe was soon bearing them 


So 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


down the river toward Chester, at which place 
a few days later Dorothy had her wish fulfilled 
concerning- the Governor. 

She was on her way to the Jonson’s when 
she came face to face with the Proprietary him- 
self, who stopped and spoke to her. 

“ And what little English lass is this?” he 
asked. 

“I am Dorothy James,” she replied. 

“ The James family of Stafford ? M 

“Yes, sir, though, for some generations 
dwelling at Bristol.” 

“ Ah, yes ; I remember. I have a little 
maid at home, of whom I am reminded by a 
sight of thee. My girl is named Laetitia. 
Some day she, too, perchance, may come to 
Pennsylvania, and thou mayst see her. Dost 
thou live at Chester ?” 

“ I do, sir, now, but I shall, I think, soon 
live in the new city of Philadelphia.” 

“That is well. I think, Pearson,” turning to 
his friend, “ that we need have no shame 
when looking upon such settlers as these.” 
And he smiled down on the little girl, who pur- 
sued her way feeling very proud of the notice 
taken of her. She had really been quite jeal- 
ous of Tina for having spoken with the Pro- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


151 

prietary, while she, his own countrywoman, had 
not, and she appeared with a glowing face in 
the farm-yard of the Jonson’s. 

Mrs. Jonson, in her knit hood and petti- 
coat, a flock of little children about her, was 
brisk and busy, yet in so quiet and steady a 
way as not to seem closely occupied, although 
she accomplished wonders, as her store house 
showed. 

It was too cool to stay outside, and the 
girls went into the room dimly lighted by the 
small windows with their covers of isinglass. 
In one corner the big fire-place showed a blaz- 
ing fire, and before it, on the skins thrown down, 
the children gathered. 

Dorothy liked much to be with this con- 
tented, happy family. She always felt better 
for the going, and generally was in time for 
“ four-o’clock piece.” She often smiled as she 
thought how astonished Lady Beatrice Lowe 
would be, could she see her drinking broth 
from a tin cup, or eating buckwheat cakes or 
mush and milk in the midst of a group of little, 
round, ruddy-faced children. She was learn- 
ing many things from these good-natured 
Swedes ; things which would be useful to her 
later on : brewing and baking, and spinning and 


152 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


knitting ; accomplishments which had never 
come her way. She and Tina on this Novem- 
ber afternoon each sat with her knitting. 

“What shouldst thou say, Tina, if I told 
thee I had come to say good-bye ?” said Dor- 
othy. “ I am thinking of setting sail with John 
Winterthorn.” 

“An’ leefe de mudder ?” exclaimed Tina, 
opening her blue eyes wide. 

“ But she is going to leave me.” 

“Tina looked puzzled. “She go some 
veres. You not dell me.” 

“ No, but it is the same thing.” 

Tina shook her head. “No, altogedder.” 

Dorothy sighed. She felt in by no means 
a sweet and peaceful frame of mind, such as 
became a little Quakeress. She was conscious 
that it was a very good thing for her mother 
to marry Benjamin Taylor, and yielded the 
approval of her conscience thus far, but she 
could not make up her mind to be satisfied with 
taking a second place. 

“ How shouldst thou like another father ?” 
she asked Tina. 

Her companion took some time to consider 
this. She was not quick at answering. She 
thought of her father in his leathern breeches 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


153 


and jerkin, and wondered how it would seem 
to have him ousted by some other. 

“ I am not lige it,” she finally concluded. 

“ And neither do I,” returned Dorothy, 
triumphantly. 

But suddenly to Tina came an unwonted 
brilliancy of suggestion. “Josef haf not he 
own fadder, an’ he lige mine fery goot.” 

Dorothy looked very thoughtfully into the 
fire. She finally decided to ask Joseph how it 
seemed to have some other father than his 
own. She knew every one called him Joseph 
Jonson, and that he cheerfully accepted the 
place as son in the household. 

“You are petter staying,” said Tina, cheer- 
fully, giving Dorothy’s hand a little pat. 

They were interrupted by the entrance of 
Joseph. He had just come from the village. 
“Your mudder say you haf letter py sheep 
kom in,” he told Dorothy. 

“ Oh, a ship ! and letters 1 then I must run 
home,” said Dorothy, gathering herself up from 
the floor. “Letters! think of it. Ah, Tina, thou 
dost not know what that means. I will come 
over and tell thee all about it. Art thou going 
back with me, Joseph ? How good of thee,” 
and she started forth, forgetting altogether to 


154 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


ask the lad how he enjoyed serving one who 
was not his. father ; for in Dorothy’s eyes the 
boy was an independent person, owing allegi- 
ance to no one. He had one day told her so, 
proudly. “ My fadder a chief. I am nopody’s 
servant ; I am my fadder’ s son.” 



< 



CHAPTER X 

NEWS FROM HOME 

“ What is the news, mother ? Who has 
written ?” cried Dorothy, as she entered her 
mother’s presence. 

“ Strange news, indeed, Dorothy, ’twill be 
to thee, as to me. Yet why, I had not thought 
of it before, I do not know. I can look back 
now, and see that I might have thought how 
’twould come out.” 

“ What ? what ? hasten and tell me, mother.” 

“ Patience, patience, my child ; not so 
hasty. There is a letter for thee from thy 
Cousin Frances, and mine comes from the 
same source.” 

Dorothy tore open the packet. “Ah,” she 
exclaimed, “do thou read it to me, mother. I 
cannot unravel this writing of my cousin’s, and 
to spell it out, as I needs must do, means 


156 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

overlong to tarry for the news.” Therefore, 
her mother took the letter and began to read. 

“So many things have taken place, my 
little Dorothy, since you ran away from home 
that I scarce know where to begin to tell you of 
them. Your uncle — I suppose you would pre- 
fer I should say thy uncle — was, as might have 
been expected, more grieved than wroth, and 
save when your father died, I have rarely 
seen him more deeply stricken by sorrow. 
Naughty child that you were to distress so good 
a man.” 

‘'Oh, but — ,” Dorothy began, “Cousin 
Frances did not talk that way before I left.’' 

Her mother smiled and went on. “ So 
’twas my part, my little Quakeress, to comfort 
and solace him. Added to his other distresses 
came the death of his good old Margery, so 
long an attached servant to the family.” 

“Oh, mother, dear old Margery!” The 
tears stood in Dorothy’s eyes. 

‘ Hence you can see,” Mrs. James con- 
tinued, “ how sorely the hand of sorrow has 
smitten your poor uncle, and how utterly lonely 
he has been. I am thankful, however, that my 
poor ministrations were of benefit, and that, 
forsaken as he was by those nearest him, he 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


1 57 


still had Jasper and me to solace him, and, 
now, Dorothy, he shall nevermore be alone 
while I live, for at his urgent entreaty I have 
consented to become his wife, and when you 
receive this I shall be Mistress Humphrey 
James.” 

Dorothy stared in astonishment, before she 
found voice to say : “ My uncle is married ! 
To Cousin Frances ! what a great surprise !” 

Her mother smiled. “ Mistress Hum- 
phrey James is a clever woman, yet I think she 
will make your uncle happy. I trust so. She 
is most clever and strategic, yet not unkind 
nor ill-tempered. Yes, I think, although she 
has done well for herself that she will also do 
well for thy uncle, but — Dorothy, I doubt not 
this cuts thee off utterly. I will read further.” 

“Naturally, as I said,” she continued read- 
ing, “ your uncle inclines toward thinking you 
an ungrateful little minx, and has felt that his 
years of care for you deserved a better return ; 
and he bids me say — having no wish to write, 
on his own account — that save for the small 
amount you inherit from your father, that you 
can expect nothing through him.” 

Dorothy’s cheeks flamed. “As if I expected 
it ! I don’t care, do you, mother?” 


I 5 s 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ No, my child. Such treasures may be of 
value in a certain sense, but they are not worth 
the sacrifice of one’s convictions. It is no profit 
to gain the whole world and lose one’s own 
soul. Those who have fled to this refuge, for 
the sake of religious freedom, regret not what 
the world calls wealth. I will finish the letter ; 
there is but little more.” 

“There is not much left to say,” the letter 
went on. “Jasper is well, and your uncle 
growing younger every day. My love to you, 
and for the last time, I sign myself 

“ Frances Preston.” 

Dorothy sat reflecting upon the news the 
letter contained, and when she spoke it was to 
say, “ Mother, I believe Cousin Frances helped 
me to get away for her own good reasons.” 

Her mother repressed a smile. “ I think so, 
too, Dorothy ; but since 'twas a good act in 
itself to aid thee to join thy mother we can bear 
her no grudge, and the anxiety we might feel 
as to thy uncle's comfort is lifted.” 

“ Yes, but I don’t like uncle to think me an 
ingrate, and ” 

“ What further ? ” 

“I’m afraid . Is it unkind, mother, to 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 159 

say that Cousin Frances* letter makes me feel 
as if she had helped him to think so? She 
advised me to go, and spoke but of my duty 
to thee, and she made me promise that my uncle 
should not know of her hand in the matter.” 

“Ah, well, my child, let it rest. That is the 
old life from which we are forever severed. 
Thou wouldst not leave thy mother now, even 
If thou couldst. Thou wouldst find it all 
changed at Humphrey’s Hall, and thou wouldst 
not be as a daughter in the house, but as a pen- 
sioner, to be only tolerated.” 

Poor Dorothy felt suddenly stranded. Every- 
thing seemed to be slipping away from her — all 
escapes were closed to her. She must accept 
the inevitable. Her mother’s marriage ; her 
uncle’s — why, she had never dreamed such 
changes could come ; and the bright drops 
began to fall on the letter she held. 

“ Why, daughter, thou art weeping. Is it 
such sad news to thee ?” her mother asked. 

“ Oh, mother, every one leaves me.” 

“ Thy mother?” 

“ Yes.” The words were spoken in so low 
a tone the mother could scarce hear. 

“ But, my child, say not so. It grieves me. 
I leave thee ? Put sueli thoughts far from thee.” 


i6o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ But thou wilt marry, and I shall be 
nobody’s daughter.” 

“ My daughter, that is unkind. Thou art 
always my own and only. Come, Dorothy, 
give not rein to such rebellious thoughts.” 

“Ah, but mother, of late thou hast not been 
glad and happy with me, as thou used.” 

“ That is not lack of love ; it is that gravity 
and seriousness are the part of a Friend. 
Mirth and the great giving way to emotions do 
not appear seemly.” 

“Are they wrong ? Is it wrong to laugh and 
be happy, and take one’s pleasure ? ” 

“It is wrong to place such things before 
matters of serious import ; and happiness 
should come from the inner peace and not from 
matters of mere outside enjoyment, which are 
all vanity.” 

“ But I saw William Penn laugh right mer- 
rily the other day. Mother, he seems not so 
grave and severe as those Friends at Bristol.” 

“ He is somewhat censured for lightness of 
deportment, good man though he be. ’Tis his 
life at courts and his mingling with gay, worldly 
people, which renders him so. But here comes 
John Winterthorn. We have sad news to tell 
him.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


161 

John did, indeed, look sober when informed 
of all the changes which had taken place since 
he left home. His master’s marriage seemed 
to affect him almost as much as did the news of 
the death of his sister Margery, who had long 
been feeble. 

“An* you’ll not go back with me, ’tis plain 
to tell,” he said to Dorothy, when they were 
alone. 

“ Oh, no, John. I see now I should never 
have considered it, and as matters are, there is 
no such venture to be thought of. I shall never 
see England again.” 

John turned away his head, and his face 
twitched as he went from her. It was a hard 
going back for him without her, and when he 
did at last step aboard the vessel, which was to 
bear him away, Dorothy felt that the last link 
between herself and Old England was broken, 
and she clung to John with many sobs and 
tears, so that the old man was greatly moved, 
and swept the back of his hand across his eyes 
more than once. 

A week before John’s departure Hester 
James and Benjamin Taylor took each other in 
marriage, and the cave on the water-side was 
given up for a more comfortable log cabin 


162 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

where the family was to dwell till the new house 
in Philadelphia should be finished. 

“I was haled out of my home in Flint- 
shire,” said Benjamin Taylor, “and this will 
make a second move ; but once in mine own 
again ’twill be a free estate and a free con- 
science, Hester, that we shall possess.” 

Benjamin Taylor was the strictest of 
Quakers ; he spoke in an even, placid voice, 
never appeared ruffled 4 but his measured 
accents did not the less indicate a strong will 
and a rigid determination when once he was 
set upon a thing. He was, moreover, a man 
to make the best of opportunities, and the 
new country offered many. He was likely to 
be prosperous, painstaking and content. 

Dorothy had been used to running up 
against a strong will, for in her uncle she 
encountered some such character as Benja- 
min’s. There was, however, this difference in 
her own attitude. As her legal guardian she 
felt that her uncle had an undoubted right to 
control her, but she resented any such inter- 
ference on the part of this step-father, who 
early began to establish his rules concerning 
her. 


Thou must not go so often to the Jon- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 163 

sons,” he told her one morning, a couple of 
months after the removal to the log-house. 

Dorothy’s head was flung up suddenly as 
she inquired, “Why?” 

“ They are not of thy society. They are 
like to wean thee from thy friends. Thou art 
none too well grounded, for youth is prone to 
yearn for unrighteous pleasures, and the stab- 
lishing of thy feet upon a firm faith shouldst be 
thy first concern. These Swedes, moreover, 
are given to strange and ungodly customs.” 

“What customs?” 

“Feasting and dancing, decking themselves 
with trumpery at bridals and at the time called 
Christmas. All such follies and vain customs 
a Friend should eschew. They burthen the 
pure life.” 

“ And thou dost not want me to go to Frida 
Jonson’s wedding ?” 

“ I forbid it.” 

Dorothy could be very meek and obedient, 
but she could also be very determined, and her 
eyes snapped as she heard her step-father’s 
calm words uttered. She turned her eyes on 
her mother, but her look was not returned. 

“Mother,” cried Dorothy, “am I not 
to go?” 


164 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Thou hast heard what thy father says.” 

“ My father !” The words were forced 
indignantly from the girl's lips, and she sprang 
up and flew to the little room overhead, which 
had been set aside for her use — a queer little 
loft of a room over the one living room below. 
Here Dorothy sat down and wept bitterly. “ I 
want somebody of my own. I want it as it used 
to be. I want my mother all to myself, and uncle 
all to myself, and dear old Humphrey's Hall, I 
want it. I do want it as it used to be,” she sobbed. 
The poor little rebellious spirit would not be 
quelled. It was strange that not a year before 
she had wept in her room because her uncle 
had insisted that she should go to Lady Beatrice 
Lowe’s May party, and she had refused on the 
score of its being too great a festivity. She 
did not understand that coercion lay at the 
bottom of the difficulty, and that in both cases 
it was rebellion against compulsory measures 
which stirred her. “I cannot, I will not obey 
him. He is not my father,” she murmured. 
She remembered that her simple little pleasures 
had, one after another, been tabooed. Her 
mother had a sweet voice, and Dorothy had 
loved to hear her sing, but now never a note 
was heard, for music was decried as stirring up 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 165 

the soul to vanity. Dorothy had liked to wear 
the pretty gowns and trinkets her uncle had 
given her. Not gay apparel, but pretty, dainty 
stuffs. These had been frowned upon till only 
sober hues now appeared upon herself and her 
mother. Benjamin Taylor was a good provider, 
his table wanted nothing that the colony could 
provide. He was honest to a degree ; truthful 
— almost too much so, for it was part of his 
creed to “clear himself of an exercise,” and to 
deal with whomsoever he might disapprove. 
Consequently, poor little Dorothy came in for 
her share of this discipline. Very different it 
was from the bluff outbreaks of her uncle, 
whose tempests were of short duration, and 
whose blustering orders were not as terrible 
as they seemed. The calm, sedate, terror- 
striking words of Benjamin Taylor sometimes 
scared Dorothy greatly, and she would go to 
her room overcome with a sense of her 
depravity and her wickedness in grieving the 
Spirit. 

But in the matter of the wedding, she was 
sure that she was right, for were not weddings 
proper entertainments, and did not even the 
Friends make long festivities at such times ? 
And then she had promised, and her yea must 


1 66 


THY FRTEND DOROTHY 


be yea, and her nay, nay, else she was no 
Quaker. That settled it. She had given up 
meekly all idea of Christmas joys, although she 
remembered regretfully the dear, merry times 
at Humphrey’s Hall ; the Yule log, and the 
gay company ; the snap-dragon, and the mistle- 
toe, the wreaths of holly, and the waits ; not 
one of them but passed in review before her, 
and she had shed more than one tear over the 
loss. But she had listened quietly to Chris- 
tine’s account of the Christmas merry-making 
at her home, with the time-honored customs of 
old Sweden ; of the service at Wicaco Church, 
where the garlanded lights were so beautiful, 
and the music so lustily sung. It had all 
sounded very delightful, and Dorothy was sure 
the Swedes were good people. They had their 
hymn-books and catechisms ; they were honest 
and gentle and conscientious. Yet for all that, 
because Benjamin Taylor said so, she must not 
visit her friend Christine. She decided then 
and there that she would. 

She listened till she heard her step-father 
depart, and then she climbed down the ladder, 
which made the only stairway to her room, and, 
with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, she 
appeared before her mother. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


167 


“ Mother, mother, am I not to go to Frida’s 
wedding ? ” 

“ Thou heardest what thy father said, 
Dorothy.” 

“ He is not my father.” 

“ Hush, Dorothy, this is not the speech nor 
the manner of a quiet, godly Friend. Thou 
art all in a passion of temper. For shame to 
be so heated. He is thy father, inasmuch as 
he stands in the stead of thine own.” 

“ Oh, mother, you did never forbid my 
going to Tina’s before you married this man ; 
you were very different before.” 

“ Dorothy, Dorothy, thou art even for- 
getting thy plain speech.” 

“ I cannot help it if I forget. I want to 
forget, if it is to make my mother my enemy. 
I do not love it.” 

“ Thine enemy ! because thou hast a desire 
for light pleasure, which is but vanity, and will 
stand in the way of thy soul’s good ? ” 

“ But a wedding is different. Why, mother, 
at thine own marriage there were two days’ 
feasting down here, and even among Friends 
’tis an occasion for rejoicing.” 

“ But not outward display and foolish 
bedighting of the person. Moreover, thou 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


1 68 

hast need of a more sober influence than ever, 
since thou hast displayed such a spirit of evil 
passion. Instead of thrusting 1 thyself into a 
light company, thou wouldst better sit by thy- 
self and listen to the inner voice. I am much 
disappointed in thee, Dorothy. I believed thou 
hadst found true convincement.” 

“ Oh, mother, I did. I do believe that thou 
and William Penn are right. I do not believe 
in persecuting the Friends, and I do believe in 
being gentle and truthful and peaceful, but I 
do not see why I may not smile, or sing or go 
to a merry-making, which is not merely a frolic, 
but is a religious ceremony. Thou didst not 
frown, nor be so solemn before. Thou didst 
but be quiet and gentle and not severe. ’Tis 
all Benjamin Taylor’s doings.” 

“Dorothy!” her mother spoke sternly, 
“ thou hast a most unruly tongue. Where is 
thy meekness, thy humility ? Leave me. Nay, 
nay, I want no caress from so undutiful a 
daughter,” and she quietly put aside the arms 
which were about to enfold her. 

The movement had the effect of making 
Dorothy spring to her feet and fly out the door. 
Where should she go? Her beloved mother 
had turned against her. John Winterthorn had 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


169 


left her. Her uncle cared only for his new 
wife, and in this strange new country to which 
she had fled for her mother’s sake, she felt des- 
perately lonely. She ran on and on, down the 
road toward the village of Chester. She looked 
across the creek at Essex House, the residence 
of Robert Wade. She wondered if William 
Penn, now stopping there, would be so strict 
with his Laetitia, as not to allow her to go to 
see her friends. She looked toward James 
Sanderland’s extensive acres, and, presently, 
she saw that persons had begun to gather about 
the landing, all looking earnestly down stream. 

“ Ah, a vessel must be coming,” she said to 
herself. “ I will join the lookers, as ’twill be a 
diversion ; perhaps, even that, after a time, will 
be denied me. Ah, well, I shall one day be 
older, and need no longer stop where I do not 
wish, under the roof of a domineering Quaker.” 

It had come to this, Dorothy was calling 
them Quakers ! 

“She comes ! She comes !” the shout went 
up as the girl reached the landing, and all eyes 
were turned toward the incoming vessel. 

As usual, Joseph was on hand. He never 
failed to see a vessel arrive, and seemed to 
know intuitively when to expect it. 


170 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

Dorothy was glad to see him. She never 
had any difficulties with him, she reflected. 
“Ah, Joseph,” she said, “how glad I am that I 
came down. I like well to see the ships come 
in. Perhaps this will bring a familiar face, or 
at least letters from Bristol. Knowest thou 
what vessel it is ? ” 

“ No, it is a larche one, dere haf many 
beeples kom dis year.” 

“Ah, so many. Ah, there she is fast, in 
her moorings. They will begin to land. How 
tired they must be of the long voyage ! See 
them look in wonderment. So did I some 
months ago. Oh! — ” Dorothy started for- 
ward, paused, looked again, and at the same 
time a lad, among the first to set foot on shore, 
caught sight of her. He snatched his cap from 
his head and waved it joyously. “ Dorothy, 
Dorothy,” he cried. “ Hurrah ! I’ve found you 
first thing.” 

The girl ran forward with outstretched 
hands, which were caught in a hearty clasp by 
Jasper ! 



CHAPTER XI 

HOW JASPER FOUND A WAY 

“ Jasper! Jasper! If thou didst but know 
how glad I am to see thee/’ Dorothy cried, as 
she realized who it was before her. 

“And I to see you, Dolly. Faith, but it 
seems a boon to reach solid earth again. After 
two months’ buffeting I scarce can find my legs. 
’Tis a sorry trip to make in a crowded vessel.” 

“But why didst thou come?” Dorothy 
asked. “ I am filled with surprise, Jasper ; I 
had never expected to see any of my kin 
again.” 

“You counted without your host, then, for 
here am I.” And he laughed his own, old 
mellow laugh, which gave Dorothy a thrill 
of joy. It was delightful to see this bright, 
happy youth, after the days of repression ; the 
continual association with gloomy counte- 
nances. 

“ And where can I find lodgment?” asked 

171 



172 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Jasper. “ I must settle that, and then for a good 
long talk, Dolly.” 

“ There’s room enough not to be crowded, 
if one desires quiet and seclusion,” laughed 
Dorothy. 

“ So I venture to say. I have a letter to 
one Robert Wade.” 

“Ah, ’tis where the Proprietary is stopping. 
Yon house across the creek, the back piazza 
fronting this way, is Essex House ; but I doubt 
if thou canst find room here, so many Friends 
have come over, I conclude ’tis quite filled. 
But, stay ; I will ask Joseph. ’Tis my cousin 
from Old England, Jasper Preston, Joseph; 
and, Jasper, this is Joseph Jonson ; a right, 
good friend of mine he is, too.” 

The two lads stood measuring each other. 
Jasper was a year or so the older, and, with his 
fair, curling hair, honest blue eyes and ruddy 
cheeks, tanned by reason of his long voyage, 
he formed a contrast to the swarthy, sinewy lad, 
with his piercing black eyes and straight, dark 
hair. Jasper looked curiously at Joseph’s 
leathern breeches, stout woolen doublet and 
fur cap with its funny, little peak, while the 
Swede’s boy was quite as interested in Jasper’s 
rather foppish attire. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


173 


“ I will feel indebted, sir,” Jasper said, cau- 
tiously, “ if you could recommend to me an inn 
or such abode, where I may take up lodging.” 

'‘I dink Jon Jonson dake you. Dat is de 
house I lif by,” replied Joseph. 

“Ah, I always forget Joseph's name is not 
Jonson. What is it, Joseph ?” 

“Jacobson,” he replied, quietly. 

“ So it is ; I remember now. Joseph says, 
Jasper, that they can take thee in at the Jon- 
sons ; that is where he lives. I am so glad 
thou canst go there, Jasper, for they are my 
best friends. Thou wilt see my dear, pretty 
Tina, and Frida who is soon to be married. 
They will make thee quite comfortable.” 

“Are they Dutch?” asked Jasper, in an 
aside. 

“No, Swedes ; and now come, let us go. 
Thou hast a box, perhaps, or other luggage.” 

“ A box or so ; yes.” 

“What of them, Joseph?” 

“ I kom get dem bimeby.” 

Dorothy flashed him a smile. “Thou art 
always so ready to help, Joseph,” she said. 
“Oh, Jasper, I have a hundred things to ask 
thee.” 


And I a thousand to tell.” 


174 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ My uncle, how is he ? And thy mother, 
Mistress James ? How strange to call her so.” 

“ Your uncle is better and younger than I 
ever saw him, and my mother is also well. And 
how is your mother, who is Mistress James, 
also ?” 

“But she is not?” 

Jasper stared. “ Not ! ” 

“No, I forgot thou hadst not heard. She 
has married one Benjamin Taylor.” 

“ Then — why, Dolly, we are closer akin, for 
each has a step father.” 

Dorothy looked grave ; it was a sore subject 
with her just then, for she had, scarce an hour 
before, run out of the house to get rid of the 
remembrance, and her going directly to the 
Swede’s might seem like an open act of rebellion. 
Yes surely, Jaspers coming might be sufficient 
excuse. And she again repeated, “ Ah, Jasper, 
if thou didst but know how glad 1 am to see 
thee.” 

He smiled brightly. “ This is a strange, new 
country,” he remarked. “ I am^ greatly exer- 
cised to know and see the curious things here- 
abouts.” 

“Joseph and I will show thee, will we not, 
Joseph? I think thou wilt open thine eyes at 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


175 


many things. What thinkest thou of flocks of 
wild pigeons so dense that they seem like a 
cloud ; of turkeys so immoderately fat that 
some weigh over forty pounds ? And as for 
fish, such mighty draughts thou hast never 
even imagined. 0 

Jasper’s face beamed ; he had all the 
Englishman’s love of sport, and he nodded 
appreciatively at Joseph. 

“Ah, yes,” laughed Dorothy. “ Joseph can 
show thee many things. Thou canst not find a 
better teacher. He has knowledge of all the 
Indian crafts. Oh, thou hast much to see, 
Jasper.” 

The lad concluded he had when he reached 
the house of the Swede, Jon Jonson, and saw 
the good wife in her skin jacket and linsey pet- 
ticoat, saw the rude implements, the queerly 
furnished room. But the hospitality was, above 
all things, conspicuous, and he was received 
with smiles and greetings even by the shy little 
children. 

Dorothy watched him with much amuse- 
ment, as he partook of the dinner soon ready. 
He took his cue from her, and declared after- 
ward that he was never so puzzled in his life, 
that he had no idea of what he was eating, 


176 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


when hominy, pumpkin, wild fowl, and other 
unfamiliar dishes were set before him. 

“And now, Jasper, while Joseph has gone 
for the box, and has taken the news of thine 
arrival to my mother, let us have our talk,” 
Dorothy said, after the meal was over. 

“And later I will pay my respects to Mis- 
tress Taylor,” he returned. 

“ First of all, then, tell me why thou wast 
moved to take the voyage ? 99 

“ For you, Dolly.” 

Dorothy opened her eyes. “ For me ? 99 

Jasper laughed. “You see, Dorothy, after 
you went away, your uncle was in a fine fury, 
and declared he would never again have aught to 
do with you. Zounds! but I was surprised when 
he and my mother made a match. I like it 
not.” 

“ And, why, Jasper ? My uncle is a man of 
excellent parts, and of gentle birth.” 

“So he is, and of right goodly carriage, save 
when he is in a rage ; but I wanted no step-father, 
heir or no heir though I might be. Well, then, 
Dolly, after the marriage my tongue wagged 
too freely one day, for your uncle told me that 
he intended that I should not only inherit Hum- 
phrey’s Hall, but all his personal estate, which 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


1 77 


at one time I know was intended for you. I 
spoke hotly, for he said harsh things of you, 
and said I, ‘To my mother did Dorothy go for 
advice ; ’twas not as if she had fled unadvised/ 
and then I told him that my mother was to bear 
farewells and make it smooth for you. Then 
your uncle turned a lowering look on my 
mother, who burst out a-weeping and said ’twas 
for love — for love she had so done. I did not 
understand, nor do I yet, what was her mean- 
ing, but suffice to say that in some way I made 
a disturbment. Then I vowed I would have 
none estate if I must rob you, and my mother 
did weep more and more, so that I did more 
and more wonder. Nevertheless I had my say, 
and strode out, leaving them to settle their dif- 
ference. Later, your uncle came to me and 
said he loved you well, and would you return 
he would still make you his heir ; and then 
came my mother saying I had done her great 
despite. What, she would not say ; but she 
did regret she had sent you off without consult- 
ing your uncle. Then said I, give me but a 
portion for travel, and over seas will I go to 
Mistress Dolly, and, perchance, she will return, 
if but for a visit. So, mistress, I have come 
this long way for you. Your uncle was well 


178 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


pleased at my proposition. He gave me a fat 
purse, and said, ‘ My good lad, bring her back 
and we’ll welcome her heartily. Tell the lass I 
don’t blame her for following her mother, but 
that I long to see her sweet face.’ I told him 
certain intentions of mine then and there, Dolly, 
which pleased him right well/* 

“And what were they?” 

“ I cannot tell you yet.” 

Dorothy sat with her chin in her hands. 
What strange temptations to return were con- 
tinually offered her ! 

“Little coz, are you happy here?” asked 
Jasper, gently. 

Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “ Oh, Jasper, I 
have not been so of late.” 

“ Does your step-father treat you ill ?” 

“ He means not to, but he is strict, very 
strict. He is a good man ; a tender and careful 
husband. He desires me to be more serious 
and solemn than is my nature ; that is all. My 
mother, who used to be merry and gladsome 
with me in the old days, now treats me with 
more severity than I ever have known, for even 
my uncle’s tempestuous words were of little 
account to me, because I knew in another 
moment he would caress me.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


179 


“You were a dear, merry child, Dolly. I 
can hear your tinkling baby laugh now.” 

“And Benjamin Taylor,” Dorothy con- 
tinued, “like all Friends, forbids music and 
pleasuring of any kind. And, oh, Jasper, he has 
forbidden me to go to Frida’s wedding, and I 
so want to go.” 

“Forbids you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because ’tis a festal occasion of which he 
does not approve.” 

Jasper arose and walked up and down the 
floor. “ We’ll see to this, Dolly, he said. 
“When is the wedding to be ?” 

“The day after to-morrow. Ah, Jasper, 
thou wilt be here, and wilt see it all. I am glad, 
for thou wilt meet many persons and observe 
many new customs. I am truly glad thou cans* 
be here to go, even if I cannot.” 

“But you shall go ; I will find a way.” 

“ Oh, Jasper, how canst thou ? With the 
Friends yea is yea, and nay is nay.” 

“ I have a right good plan. I will come and 
tell you of it to-morrow, and now shall we go to 
your home ? I have many messages to give, and 
in my boxes are gifts from your uncle and my 


i8o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


mother for you. Ah, Dolly, you were not cut 
out for a Quaker/’ 

“I fear not. I am very rebellious. I 
have longings for many things the Friends 
forbid. I love music, and beauty, and fair 
apparel.” 

“Yet you were much set to oppose those 
who did favor them.” 

“ Because of my mother. I did not realize 
till I left dear old Humphrey’s Hall what it 
meant to give up those things. ’Twas very dif- 
ferent the doing because I chose, from the doing 
because I am forced.” 

Jasper laughed. “ ’Tis a nice distinction 
which I well understand ; you are too much of 
a James to be driven.” 

“ Oh, yes. I realize that I am not a true 
Friend, as my mother is. I sit in meeting on 
First Day, and instead of hearing whisperings 
of the Spirit and voices which urge me to 
meekness and to fervor of belief, I find my 
thoughts wandering, wandering back to Old 
England, to the little church where we used to 
go as little children, Jasper, and I hear the good, 
kind voice of the vicar in the old, old prayers. 
I hear the choir chanting. Ah, Jasper, I am a 
sad renegade. I have told no one this but thee, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 181 

but it is such a comfort to unburden my heart. 
Ah, thy coming is a great happiness.” 

“Poor little Dolly ! Never mind, you shall 
yet see Old England, for you will go back with 
me, will you not, if only for a visit? ” 

“Ah, Jasper, ’tis oversoon to leave my 
mother again, and I do love her, I do, and she 
loves me, even though she has so changed. 
I cannot tell so soon what I might do. Thou 
dost not return at once?” 

“ Not till I wish ; make yourself easy on 
that score, Dolly. I want to see more of this 
new country, and I am very desirous of seeing 
some sport with that queer fellow. What is his 
name ? ” 

“Joseph Jacobson. Yes, I know thou wilt 
enjoy him ; he is so clever.” 

“ What is he ? Indian ? Swede ? English ? 
I cannot make him out.” 

“ His father was an Englishman, his mother 
an American Indian, and he has been brought 
up by the Jonsons. I have never heard his 
story entirely, but he has lived with the Jon- 
sons since he was a little bit of a boy, and he 
is now sixteen, and so manly. I am sure thou 
wilt find him a pleasing companion.” 

They had left the house of the Swedes, 


182 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


who had considerately let the cousins have a 
corner to themselves in the big- living room till 
they could have their talk out, and were ready 
to start for Dorothy’s home. Now they were 
following the path thither. Jasper tossed back 
his curling locks. 

“I am ripe for adventure,” he remarked, 
“ and when once I forget the rolling of the 
ship, and the stench arising from it, I shall be 
ready for anything. Have we nearly reached 
your home, Dolly ? ” 

“Yes, ’tis just beyond that great clearing. 
Thou can st see the smoke arising from the 
chimney, even now.” 

Jasper was greeted cordially by both Benja- 
min Taylor and his wife, who overlooked 
Dorothy’s long absence. 

“And where is thy kinsman stopping?” 
she was asked by her step-father. 

“At Jon Jonson’s,” she replied. 

Benjamin frowned slightly. “ I would he 
had gone among Friends. I opine he is of the 
world’s people, and ’twere well for one of his 
tender years to be under the influence of those 
who have found the truth.” 

The reference to his tender years was 
scarcely relished by Jasper, who replied : “I 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


183 


have a letter to one Robert Wade and another 
to your Governor himself, whose father, 
Admiral Penn, was well known in Bristol, and 
was a friend of my grandfather’s. I had 
thought to find lodgment at Mr. Robert 
Wade’s, but I learn his house is at present 
overfull, and ’twould be an intrusion to ask 
shelter from him. These Swedes are most 
hospitable, and I shall find it comfortable in 
their house, I doubt not.” 

“ Yet somewhat different from an English 
home,” returned Benjamin Taylor. “ A little 
later, shouldst thou tarry so long, our own 
house in the city of Philadelphia can offer wel- 
come to thee. ’Tis not quite complete, but 
nearly so.” 

It looked strange enough to Jasper to see 
Dorothy helping her mother in such domestic 
ways, as he had never imagined her capable of 
using. The retinue of servants at Humphrey’s 
Hall had precluded any such necessity, and to 
see fair little Dolly doing menial work rather 
disturbed the lad. But Dorothy smiled at his 
outspoken dislike to her soiling her hands, and 
told him in a new country all must work. 

“ ’Tis a law to be enforced,” she informed 
him, “that all over twelve years of age shall 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


184 

have a trade ; so, Master Jasper, thou hadst 
best set thy wits to work to choose thine if 
thou dost mean to remain here.” 

“ Ah, but I do not,” he returned. “I like it 
well enough for a brief space, but ’tis too rough 
for me.” 

“ ’Tis a fine country for freedom of thought, 
and for those who have a strong right arm and 
a staunch heart,” remarked Benjamin Taylor. 
“ ’Tis a wonderful country in resources, and 
methinks must prosper.” 

“ So say I, from what I have seen of it, 
though that is but little, since I arrived but this 
morning.” 

“ The number of arrivals is astonishing. 
Hast thou heard speak of the fair treaty which 
William Penn hath made with the Indians ? 
’Twas a most generous and just one, and we 
dwell in safety in the midst of our savage 
brethren because of it. The Swedes, too, have 
offered their allegiance, so mild and merciful is 
our Governor.” 

“ I have been two months at sea, and have 
heard little but the dashing of waves,” replied 
Jasper. 

“ ’Twas at Shackamaxon, under the great 
elm tree, that the treaty was made. We can 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


185 


show thee the spot. The whole affair does 
credit to the largeness of heart which distin- 
guishes the Proprietary. There is some one 
rapping, Dorothy ; some Friend belated, per- 
chance.” 

“ ’Tis but Joseph. He has come to pilot 
Jasper home.” 

“ A good lad is Joseph,” returned Benjamin. 
“ I would he came to our meetings, yet I do 
not despair of him. Enter Joseph ; what is 
the weather? ” 

“ She yust pecin to sleedt. I am slip quick 
by de door, she is so icy.” 

“Ah, sleeting is it ? I must see if the 
cattle are sheltered ; we shall see thee often, 
Jasper,” and he extended his broad hand in 
token of good will. 

“I’ll come to-morrow,” Jasper told Doro- 
thy, “ and we can then have further talk.” 
And, setting his teeth to brave the storm, he 
set out with Joseph across the rough country 
to the Jonson’s farm, leaving a much happier 
girl than the one who had fled from the house 
that morning. 



CHAPTER XII 

A WEDDING PARTY 

Dorothy always felt peculiarly safe where 
Jasper was. From babyhood it had been so, 
when the sturdy boy of five led the little 
girl of two along gravelled walks, careful to see 
that she did not stumble or fall ; and now his 
near presence seemed to promise a dispersion 
of all her clouds. Therefore she watched eagerly 
for him the next day, but he did not make his 
appearance till afternoon. 

“What kept thee, Jasper?” she asked, as 
she opened the door for him. “Was it the 
ice ? ” 

“ No ; slippery as it is, I have been travel- 
ing hither and thither. I went this morning to 
Essex House to deliver my letters, and 
Dolly — ” his eyes twinkled. 

“What?” 


186 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


187 


“You are to go to the wedding by order 
of the Governor.” 

“ Oh, Jasper, what jest is this ?” 

“ ’Tis no jest ; I speak but the truth.” 

“ Oh, come inside — over here by the fire, 
and tell me.” 

“ Softly, my little coz. You are in too great 
haste.” 

“Now, Jasper, do not tease me.” 

“Ah, then, I will not. ’Twas this wise, Dolly: 
Your friend, Joseph, rowed me across the creek 
in one of those queer little canoes to the land- 
ing opposite Robert Wade’s house, and after I 
had puzzled to know whether the gable end 
facing the river, or the porch facing the creek 
were the proper entrance, I decided upon the 
former, and went around to the river front. I 
readily found admittance, and was welcomed as 
an old friend. A most gracious and courtly 
man is your Governor, much too fine for a 
Quaker.” 

“Now, Jasper,” interposed Dorothy. 

“Ah, but I said you were no Quaker.” 

Dorothy shook her head at him, and he 
laughed softly, after he had looked around to 
see if his indiscretion had been heard by 
Dorothy’s mother. 


i88 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Then,” continued Jasper, “ he asked where 
I was stopping, and I told him. Then, sly boots 
that I am — give me credit, Dolly, for astute- 
ness — I said, ‘ I suppose, sir, you will attend the 
wedding festivities to-morrow. I bring you a 
cordial invitation, although I hear you have 
already had one.’ The Governor looked at Mr. 
Wade, who nodded, and said ‘Yes, the eldest 
daughter of Jon Johnson is to be married at 
Wicaco Church.’ 

“ ‘ I should like to witness it,’ said his Excel- 
lency, musingly. 

“ ‘ ’Twould be most gracious of you,’ spoke 
up Master Foxy I, ‘ since these people have but 
lately come under your government.* 

“Tam sure ’twould gratify them; more- 
over, their customs are, doubtless, interesting 
to behold.’ 

“ ‘What thinkest thou, Robert ?’ said he. 

“ ‘ That ’twould please the Swedes greatly. 
I shall be well pleased to escort thee thither.’ 

“ ‘ Thou wilt, of course, be there, Master 
Preston ?’ said his Governorship. 

“Then, foxy, I again says ‘I fain would go, 
sir, could a little cousin of mine be present, but 
since she is forbidden to attend, I think I must 
perforce comfort her with my society.’ ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


189 


Dorothy clapped her hands softly. 

“ Then up speaks Mr. Penn and asks, 

‘ Why goes she not ?’ and I answered, ‘ Be- 
cause her step-father, Benjamin Taylor, thinks 
it is not seemly for a Friend to attend such 
pernicious ceremonies as weddings.' 

“ His Excellency laughed at my demure 
speech and said, ‘Ah, that is too severe. Our 
good Benjamin Taylor must not be hard on a 
little lass — a little lass I suppose it is ?’ 

“‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, ‘and a right good 
one.’ Then, Dorothy, pardon me if I do not 
repeat what came next, ’twould cause your fair 
cheek to blush at my praises and my story of 
you.” 

“Ah, Jasper, thou wast always a sad 
flatterer.” 

“No, I but spoke the truth. But hear the 
rest. Then said the Governor : ‘ Bear my good 
wishes to thy little cousin and say I hope she 
will join our party, and also say to Benjamin 
Taylor that ’tis in accordance with my express 
desire that the lass comes with thee.’ ” 

“ Oh, thou dear, good Jasper, how happy 
thou hast made me ! There, my mother has 
left her spinning and comes toward us. Tell 
hen” 




190 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Jasper delivered his message with great 
gravity. 

“ How comes William Penn to know of my 
daughter ? ” Mrs. Taylor asked a little sus- 
piciously. 

“ Because, Mistress Taylor, I spoke of my 
cousin, and awoke the Proprietary’s interest in 
her,” Jasper replied. 

“ I will consult my husband,” returned Dor- 
othy’s mother. 

But Jasper frustrated this, and sought out 
the worthy himself. 

Benjamin reflected upon the matter. “ A 
Friend’s yea is yea, and his nay nay,” he said. 
“ I cannot give my consent after having with- 
held it.” 

“Well, what would happen if Dorothy 
went without it ? ” queried Jasper. 

Benjamin looked at him with a little twinkle 
in his eye. “Nothing,” he said. 

Jasper laughed and considered the matter 
settled, while Dorothy understood that nothing 
stood in the way of her accepting the honor 
shown her by the Governor, and made ready, 
with a very happy heart, to return the next day 
with Jasper to the Essex House, from which 
she was to start to the Jonsons to see pretty 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


191 

Frida married to one of the young Swansons 
from up at Passiung. Dorothy had once seen 
the church at Wicaco ; a queer block house, 
used as a place of defence as well as a church. 
She had been much interested in the story of 
how the Indians had tried to undermine the 
building when the people had gathered there 
for defence, and how the women with their 
scalding soft soap effectually drove off the 
savages. The lands of the Swansons had 
been then pointed out to her by Christine, and 
she had often seen the fresh-looking young 
Swede whom Frida was to marry. 

On the eventful evening, cuddled down 
under a great bearskin, with her cousin Jasper 
not far away, with the Proprietary and his 
friends in the company, Dorothy took her way 
in a rude sledge to the church. Snow had 
fallen over night, and the ground was white. 

The dingy little church was gay with lights 
and green with garlands from the woods, which 
reminded Dorothy of her own familiar church 
at Christmas time in her old home. 

“The blind old pastor, Fabritius, performed 
the ceremony according to the canon of the 
Church of England, and Dorothy was carried 
back to her childhood’s days as she looked 


192 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


upon the performance of the familiar rite, 
although she could not understand the words, 
the Dutch language being used. 

After the ceremony a joyous party assem- 
bled in the stout log house of Jon Jonson. On 
one of the long benches, placed in readiness, 
the bridegroom seated himself, with his friends. 
Opposite, on another, Jon Jonson took his 
place with his special company, among these 
guests being William Penn and his compan- 
ions, to whom a glad welcome had been 
accorded. Frida’s seat was a cross-bench, where 
she and her bridesmaids were installed in state, 
Frida wearing her gold crown, her garlands, 
her bridal ornaments ; her flaxen hair being 
arranged in the time-honored Swedish fashion. 

There was much that was queer and inter- 
esting to the English visitors, even though they 
could not understand everything. Dorothy was 
specially interested in the bestowal of the 
“ bekkjar-gjdf” or bench-gift, which in this 
instance was a beautiful fur cloak made from 
skins which young Olaf Swanson had procured 
and dressed with his own hands, and which he 
presented by walking across the floor and offer- 
ing it to his bride while she still sat on the 
bridal bench. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


193 


After all the ceremonies were over there 
followed such a feast as made Jasper open his 
eyes. Ham, beef, tongue, turkey, goose, 
pastries of chickens and partridges, cheese and 
sweetmeats, and punch. Such liberal supplies 
of the latter that it is a wonder the company 
kept sober heads at all. There were, too, many 
other strange drinks, including CElost, Hdtt Pdt y 
w T ith a dozen other concoctions which puzzled 
Jasper, as well as some of the other English 
guests. Then came the old Swedish games ; 
jumping and skin-pulling and dancing, pretty 
national dances with strong, wild, rhythmic 
accents, made by a stamp of the foot in time 
with the music. It was all very delightful to the 
little English girl who had so long been under 
the restrictions of Quaker seriousness. She 
thought Frida in her gilt crown the most beau- 
tiful creature she had ever beheld, and asked 
Jasper if he did not agree with her. 

“ She is pretty,” Jasper said, “ and so is her 
sister, your friend Christine. She has such a 
lovely complexion and eyes like forget-me-nots. 
I shall ask her to dance with me.” And true 
enough he led out the pretty, blushing Tina, 
although he was not familiar with the Swedish 
measures. Still he “ footed it featly,” and 


194 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Dorothy, who did not dare to take part in such 
frivolities, sat in her corner and watched the 
pair with a little jealous feeling at heart. 

Joseph spent much time at her side, ex- 
plaining to her the various customs and acting 
as interpreter. But he left her to take part in 
the jumping, which Dorothy thought wonder- 
ful, and she clapped her hands when he out- 
leaped them all, strong and agile as the Swedes 
were. But in the skin-pulling it was young 
Olaf Swanson who was able to tear the ox-hide 
asunder, though his opponent, a Jonson, pulled 
with all his might, and nearly fell over into the 
roaring fire in his efforts to win. 

And then Tina brought over the old blind 
pastor, and, with Joseph’s help, she managed 
to talk to him. Pastor Fabritius could no 
longer read the church service, he told her, and 
Andras Bengsen was now reader, but the old 
man performed all such rites as marriage, and 
was an honored guest, although a man of tur- 
bulent disposition who had more than once 
been suspended from exercising the rights of 
his office. 

“You hafalso my name,” he said to Dorothy. 

She looked up in surprise. “ Why ? Ah, 
thy first name is James,” she returned. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


195 


“ The same in Swedish, Dutch and Latin, 
for ’tis Jacobus Fabritius,” he told her. 

“How funny,” replied Dorothy. “I never 
knew that James and Jacobus were the same. 
I think the changes in name are very queer 
anyhow. Lars is Lawrence, and Brita is 
Bridget, and Olle is William. ’Tis very con- 
fusing. Was your marriage service the same as 
ours ? I mean as the Church of England’s ? It 
seemed so to me.” 

“ Yes, ’tis the zame ; de Zwedish church is 
much lige de Eenglish.” 

“Ah, Jasper will be glad of that. He can 
then go to Wicaco Church. Dost hear, 
Jasper ?” she asked, as her cousin came up, 
and the old pastor moved away. 

“I do, little coz,” Jasper answered. “I 
have been afraid that you would insist upon 
making a Quaker of me, and I have no will to 
pull a long countenance, nor whine in my 
speech like a whipped cur.” 

“Ah, Jasper, say not so. Does the Pro- 
prietary thus ? Look at him now, he has as 
smiling a countenance as any, and saw you 
how he joined in some of the sports ?” 

“Aye, I did. If all men were of his ilk, I 
might — what is it you call it — find convince- 


196 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


ment.” And Jasper laughed, although Dorothy 
looked grave. 

“ Who is that queer, old creature over 
yonder, to whom Joseph shows such respect ?” 
asked Jasper. 

“Why, ’tis his grandmother. She is an 
Indian.” 

“ An Indian ! How odd to have a savage 
redskin for a grandmother ; and that makes 
me think, Dolly, I don’t half like the boy’s 
hanging around you so much. He’s all very 
well for a guide or interpreter, but it doesn’t 
seem to me that he is exactly what you should 
desire for a gallant,” Jasper spoke in quite an 
aggrieved tone. 

“ Now, Jasper, thou, too, art trying to rob 
me of my friends. My step-father forbids me 
Tina, and thou must needs speak thus of my 
good Joseph. Dost thou not see that in this 
country all are alike ? Why, some of the chil- 
dren of these same Swedes who came over as 
convicts are now prominent in court and 
council.” 

“ Nevertheless, I don’t like a half Indian so 
at your side, receiving your smiles as freely as 
a gentle. Next you’ll be packing off to the 
woods and living in a wigwam.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


197 


Dorothy laughed, although Jasper seemed 
in earnest. “ Nonsense, I am ashamed of 
thee, Jasper, and after Joseph has been so kind 
and has done thee such service,” the girl said, 
reproachfully. 

“ That is not forgotten. I like the lad, so 
far as I am concerned ; ’tis but in your interest. 
Listen, Dolly, there is the music ; come tread 
a measure with me, as we used to do in the 
old days.” 

Dorothy drew back quite shocked. “Ah 
Jasper, thou hast forgotten I am a Friend.” 

Jasper turned on his heel without a word, 
but with ill-humor visible on his face, and in 
another moment Dorothy saw him stepping out 
with pretty little Alfhild Bengsen, and she sat 
watching them till Joseph came up. 

“ I was so pleased to see thee win at the 
jumping. How wonderfully agile thou art, 
Joseph,” she said. 

“I am yust like a cricket at yumping,” he 
replied. “Yon is quite yealous of me.” He 
spoke with some of the unaffected sincerity of 
the Swedes, and with a little of the boastful- 
ness of the Indians. Dorothy smiled at the 
“yumping” and the other y’s. She liked 
Joseph’s broken English. 


198 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“Why dost thou not dance?” she asked. 

“ Pecause you not tance.” 

“Ah, that is no reason. The Friends do 
not approve of dancing, thou knowest.” In 
these days she would have said thee knows, 
but that form of Quaker speech had not then 
become common, and would have been con- 
sidered very ungrammatical. 

“ I wish thou wouldst take me to talk to thy 
grandmother, Joseph,” she continued. “She 
seems so interested in everything. Is she very 
old, and is she a full-blooded Indian ?” 

“ She not fery oldt ; Inyan woman get old 
qvick. She half white blood. Her fader white 
man like mine.” 

“ Oh ; then thou art less than half an Indian ? 
Some day, Joseph, I want thee to tell me about 
thy father and mother, but now I want to talk 
to thy grandmother. Will she care to speak 
to me ? ” 

“ She be fery pleasing to do so,” returned 
Joseph. 

He led her to the chimney corner where the 
old Indian woman sat. She was picturesque 
even in her queer dress, half-civilized, half-sav- 
age ; a bright calico skirt and a fur jacket; 
beads around her neck, ear-rings in her ears, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


199 


moccasins on her feet. She was a store-house 
of history and anecdote when once her grave 
reticence was broken, and, after a few words 
from Joseph in her native tongue, she was 
roused to carry on a queer broken conversa- 
tion with the English lass. 

Jasper, looking across the room, frowned, 
then his usually sunny face took on a very dis- 
satisfied expression. Dolly was acting in open 
defiance to his expressed wish, and his pride, 
as well as his self-esteem, was wounded. He 
had come all the way across the ocean to offer 
her the share in her uncle’s estate, which he 
had generously refused to accept, and this was 
how she treated him. Jasper told himself that 
he was a much wronged person. As for that 
Indian boy, he would like, to use a modern 
boy’s parlance — “to punch his head.” Yes, 
and it was owing to his efforts that Dolly 
had come to the wedding ; he had almost for- 
gotten that. Jasper was not likely to give open 
voice to grievances, he was too much of a gen- 
tleman ; but he could pity himself and feel him- 
self much abused, so much so that he held aloof 
from the remainder of the festivities, and did 
not go near Dorothy for the rest of the 
evening. 


200 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Dorothy, however, enjoyed herself thor- 
oughly, and her pretty, bashful thanks to the 
Proprietary for his invitation quite won that 
genial gentleman’s heart. 

It was arranged that Jasper should go to 
Essex House for a stay, since a pressure of 
guests filled the Jonsons establishment to over- 
flowing, and the departure that day of some of 
Robert Wade’s visitors gave him more room 
for entertaining strangers. 

Dorothy was left at her own door at a later 
hour than she ever remembered having been 
out before, and was met by her step-father with 
the remark, “Thou hast not spared time in thy 
worldly festivities.” 

“ I could not come before,” the girl made 
answer. “I must needs wait till those were 
ready who should bring me home. Thy friends, 
William Penn and Robert Wade have but now 
taken leave. There were, moreover, certain 
women Friends, who were loath to come 
away.” 

Benjamin Taylor shook his head. “ ’Twill 
not do, ’twill not do. They must be warned 
from the seductions of the world. This refuge 
is not meant as a place for carousals and much 
evil mirth. ’Tis an ungodly beginning.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


201 


This put quite a damper on Dorothy’s pleas- 
ant recollections of the evening, but she 
climbed up the step-ladder to her little loft 
room, without another word, yet wishing she 
might have been spared such comments on the 
joyful occasion. 





CHAPTER XIII 

THE SON OF A CHIEF 

A heavy snowfall immediately after the 
wedding kept Dorothy housed for some days. 
Nor did she see any of her friends within a 
week, for the unbroken forest paths showed 
only the tracks of deer, fox, or some other wild 
creature, and those persons who need not stir 
abroad kept closely within the bounds of their 
own estates while the deep snow lasted. 

Dorothy wondered whether Jasper had 
returned to the Jonsons. She had heard Rob 
ert Wade tell him he should be glad of his com- 
pany so long as he should be pleased to remain, 
consequently Jasper was, perhaps, still there. 
She grew tired of indoors, and longed to see 
Tina and talk over all the news of the wed- 
ding ; but she did not dare ask permission, and 

she determined to behave so decorously and 
202 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


203 


sedately as soon to win the concession of a 
leave to visit her friends. 

She was right in her conjecture that this 
would come, for one morning she preferred her 
request, and received the coveted permission. 

It was a crisp, cold winter’s day ; the snow 
hanging to roof and thatch sparkled like dia- 
monds ; the road by this time had been packed 
hard by travel and offered sufficiently good 
walking. Dorothy, well bundled up, ran along 
thinking how beautiful this still white land- 
scape; the little farm houses, once in a while 
appearing, sent up from their chimneys slender 
blue wreaths of smoke, the sombre pines held 
white festoons, the purple of a line of forest 
showing pleasantly behind them against a pale 
winter’s sky. 

She had only gone half way when whom 
should she meet but Joseph, his bow and 
arrows in his hand and a brace of birds slung 
over his shoulder. He stopped with a little 
exclamation of pleasure as he saw Dorothy, 
and, joining her, the two went on through the 
woods toward the Jonsons. 

“ I suppose it seems perfectly natural to thee 
to kill the beautiful deer and the birds for food,” 
Dorothy remarked; “but I feel so sorry for them.” 


204 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 



It did seem a queer notion to Joseph, and 
he looked at her half puzzled. 

“You dondt lige eat her?” he asked. 

“ Yes, I do, and I know it is necessary ; but 
these are so beautiful,” and she stroked with 
one finger the glossy feathers of one of the 
birds Joseph held. 

“ Dis is goodt,” he said gravely. “ Is goodt 
for be great hunter, too.” 

“I know. Ah, Joseph, thou saidst thou 
wouldst one day tell me how it came that thou 
wert here at the Jonsons, and that I might hear 
all about thy father and mother.” 

“ My fader a chief.” 

“Yes, I know ; but he was a white man, you 
told me.” 

“Yes, he take by de Inyan when he little 
boy. He fader is kildt. He live off some vay, 
by de Chesapeake. My grandmudder is tell me 
all ’bout. De fader is kildt, den my fader is 
take away by de Lenni Lenape. He is little 
boy, and big chief call him son, teach him be 
big hunter, and he grow up large and strong in 
de lodge. Den bimeby he marry my mudder, 
and de old chief die, so my fader is chief an’ I 
am next kom. Den one times come a priest 
and my fader is listen him. Den he remember 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


205 


dat he is vite mans and he hear de religion of de 
priest and he is converted. Den dere is a times 
when de Susquahannah is fight my fader’s peo- 
ple, dey are much war, and he is kom by dis 
place and he is vounded ; den Yon Yonson is 
nurse him to his house and make him well. So 
dey is greadt freindt. Den one day my mudder 
is die, and my fader come long vay and bring 
me to Yon Yonson and say ‘ take my boy till I 
kom. I am go fight somebodys dat is kill my 
broders.’ Den he is go and is kildt by de Susqua- 
hannah, and I am sday foreffer by Yon Yonson.” 

Dorothy listened with all her ears to this 
story of fighting and killing. “ Did thy father 
remember his father ?” 

“Yes, he is say he is Englishman.” 

“ And what was his name ? ” 

“ His Inyan name was Tepasekant.” 

“ But your name is Jacobson ? ” she said. 

“ My fader is Jacobus. I am Jacobson.” 

“Jacobus !” Dorothy stopped short in the 
middle of the path. Her eyes filled with sur- 
prise. “ Why that is what the Pastor Fabritius 
said was my name. He said it was James in 
English. Your father’s name then was James. 
I wonder if it was his first or his last name. I 
do wish I knew.” 


206 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ I am Joseph Jacobson.” 

“ I know, and they pronounce it Yosef Yacob- 
son ; so I never thought of associating it with 
James,” returned Dorothy. “ I should like to 
know more about it. Does Jon Jonson know ?” 

Joseph shook his head. “ He is know my 
fader is Yacobus, and his Inyan name is 
Tepasekant.” 

“ And thou hast no way of knowing his Eng- 
lish name entirely. Isn’t it too bad ? ” 

They walked along silently for some time ; 
then Dorothy said, “Joseph, perhaps your 
grandmother knows.” 

He nodded. “ Perhaps she know. She lif 
py de voodths mit her beeple. My fader is 
say he like me be vite man’s Christian, so he 
gif to lif py Yon Yonson, and de grandmudder is 
near me all de time.” 

“ I wish thou wouldst go and see her and 
ask her. I am curious about that name Jaco- 
bus.” 

“ I go now,” and Joseph started off like a 
deer, leaving Dorothy to pursue her way alone. 

She had not gone far before she heard 
voices raised in angry altercation. She stood 
still, hesitating whether to go on or to retrace 
her steps. Curiosity caused her to proceed to 




















































































































































“ Boys! Boys ! ” she cried, “ what is this ? ” — Page 207 




THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


207 


do the latter, and she hesitatingly went back 
along the path, and to her surprise saw Joseph 
and Jasper quarreling. What did it mean ? 
She was amazed, indignant, distressed, and ran 
hastily toward them. 

“You shall not,” she heard Jasper say. I 
will not have you walking and wandering with 
my cousin. She is an English lady and you — ” 

“ The son of a chief! ” cried Joseph, drawing 
himself up proudly. “ And I am not forgedting 
your words. I am a Swede poy py de pringing 
oop. I am an Inyan for dat my mudder is half 
Inyan. I am an Englishman for dat I am de 
son of one. You must take pack your vurdts.” 
The boy’s eyes flashed and he looked danger- 
ous. 

Dorothy was more and more distressed. 
Jasper had seen her innocently walking with 
the lad, and had chosen to bring about the 
quarrel. 

“Boys! boys!” she cried, “what is this? 
Art thou not ashamed, Jasper, to say such 
things ? Don’t look so angry, Joseph, Jasper 
does not understand. Don’t look so fierce. 
You frighten me.” Joseph’s menacing hand 
dropped to his side, but he stood sullen and 
lowering. 


208 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Ah, you side with him ! ” cried Jasper. 
'‘You are ‘willing to cast aside your own kin 
for— ” 

“ Hush ! ” exclaimed Dorothy. “ Jasper, 
thou art beside thyself! Is this an English 
gentleman’s way of paying for hospitality ? Is 
this the way he wipes out his obligations, by 
quarreling with his benefactor, by abusing one 
who has befriended his kin ? ” 

“Jasper’s head drooped. “I was too 
hasty,” he murmured. “But, Dolly — ” 

“ Nay, nay, no more ! Thou hadst best 
return to Robert Wade’s, and when thou canst 
appear as a gentleman I shall be willing to 
speak with thee.” And Dorothy, very proud 
and determined, with quite the air of the 
haughtiest of the Jameses, went up to Joseph 
saying, “ My friend, wilt thou kindly see me to 
the end of my journey ? My cousin must offer 
an apology, but thou must not stay here to 
wait for it.” And Joseph turned to go with 
her, leaving Jasper crestfallen and humiliated. 

The boy really thought he was doing right. 
He did as he would have done at home should 
some peasant lad presume to offer attentions 
to his cousin, and he did not understand the 
difference between such a case and the present 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


209 


one. He had the good sense, however, to 
give an account of the difficulty to the Propri- 
etary himself, and received some good advice, 
as well as a gentle reproof for his hasty words. 
Dorothy was bent upon conciliating Joseph, 
who, she felt, had been the injured one. “ My 
cousin does not understand. Please forgive 
him, Joseph,” she entreated. 

The boy strode along sullen and angry, 
making no reply. 

“Wilt thou not?” pleaded Dorothy. “It 
will make me so miserable if thou dost not. If 
thou wert in England thou couldst understand 
his feeling, and that makes me the more anxious 
to hear what thy grandmother says. So, when 
thou hast fetched me to the house, wilt thou go 
and finish the errand on which thou wast bent 
when thou didst encounter Jasper?” 

Joseph’s frown grew heavy again at the 
mention of Jasper’s name. Dorothy anxiously 
watched him. “And, Joseph,” she went on to 
say, “Your father wanted you to be a Christian, 
like his people, and not revengeful like the 
Indians — I mean like savages who have not 
heard the truth. Please say you will not hurt 
him if you meet him.” The tears stood in the 
girl’s eyes. She had an indistinct and uncom- 


210 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


fortable feeling that Joseph, with his Indian 
blood, might not stand even at scalping Jasper. 
But Joseph would make no promises, and strode 
off after seeing Dorothy safely at the Swede’s. 
“ I will wait till thou hast come back,” she told 
him, “so please come soon.” She tried to 
smile, but it was a poor attempt, and Joseph 
made no response. She stood watching him till 
he was out of sight, and then went in. 

It was two hours before he returned. Dor- 
othy, meanwhile, had been delightedly received 
by Tina, and had heard how Frida had gone to 
her new home, and how Brita had eaten too 
many dainties at the wedding and had been 
sick ; and how little Nils had trapped a hare 
that morning ; and how Anders and Gostaf had 
been jumping and skin pulling since the great 
event ; and how Olle Swanson had presented 
Tina with a set of chessmen he had himself 
carved. So there was much to hear. 

All the time, however, Dorothy was anxious 
for Joseph’s return. She feared a second 
encounter with Jasper, and she knew that the 
latter, considering Joseph in the light of a mere 
plow-boy, a hired hand in the house of the 
Jonsons, would not be disposed to alter his 
attitude. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


2 1 1 


“ If I only could see Jasper alone, and make 
him understand,” she said to herself. And 
when Joseph appeared in time for the mid-day 
dinner, Dorothy looked at him anxiously, and 
he nodded re-assurance. He seemed in a good 
humor, and after dinner told her that his grand- 
mother had informed him of many things, and 
that she had a keepsake, which she would show 
Dorothy if she would visit her in the little 
cabin where she lived with one of her grand- 
sons. This Indian family had become Christian- 
ized, and had their own little farm in the midst 
of the Swedish settlement, which they turned 
to good account, selling their produce to the 
new settlers. Old Wesakhona was a clever 
maker of all kinds of baskets, and dishes so 
closely woven as to hold water, and of all man- 
ner of strange, fantastic shapes. She had also 
a great knowledge of herbs, and a skill in the 
use of them which was quite wonderful. Doro- 
thy had often been to her house for ointments 
and healing potions. 

" Grandmudder say you kom. She show. 
She is not send py me. She has somet’ing of 
my grandfader.” 

“ Oh, has she ? I am quite curious to see 
it. Did she show it to thee, Joseph ? ” 


212 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“Yes, I am see before, but I am forgedt- 

ing it.” 

The wrinkled old dame sat in her chimney 
corner, her long, brown fingers at work on a 
basket, which she gave Dorothy to understand 
should be hers when it was finished. 

The girl watched her deftly plaiting the 
straws in and out, while she told what she knew 
of Joseph’s parentage. Without producing her 
broken English, it was as follows : 

“When I was a young woman I wandered 
whither my tribe did, and at one time we were 
on the shores of the Chesapeake, where there 
were several white settlements. We heard 
that the white people would come to build big 
cities there, and one man, named Osborne, had 
already begun one, we were told. One day a 
white man killed one of my tribe, and his 
brother vowed that the next white man he met 
he would kill in revenge. There was one man 
who had commenced to build a house and to 
clear land near to the man Osborne’s. It was 
on a river near the Chesapeake. This white 
man had no wife, but he had a little boy about 
eight years old. The brother of the Indian who 
had been killed encountered the white man in 
the woods and slew him, bringing the child 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


213 


away with him alive. This Indian was my 
brother. He brought me a gold ring, which he 
said the white man wore. I will show it to you. 
I was young then. I liked the ornament. I 
kept it, and one day my daughter married the 
white man’s son, who had grown to be a great 
chief. He was adopted into the tribe. He was 
Joseph’s father, but he never forgot his own 
white father, and said that his son should be a 
white man’s son, and learn white man’s ways, 
as well as Indian ways. He was killed by the 
Susquahannah, and the son has lived always with 
white people since he was a little boy.” 

“ And may I see the ring ? ” asked Dorothy. 

The old woman produced a little box curi- 
ously woven of straw, and from it she took a 
seal ring, which she handed to Dorothy. On it 
in intaglio was carved a man’s head. 

Dorothy looked at it with much curiosity. 
Such a tragic history ! Such a ghastly memento ! 
Suddenly she fell to examining it more closely. 
She glanced up with a startled look. “ Why !” 
she exclaimed, “ how curious ! My uncle wears 
a ring just like this, and my mother has one 
which was my father’s. How strange !” She 
took the ring over to the little window, covered 
with a bladder skin, through which the light 


214 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


came dimly ; but she was able to read an inscrip- 
tion on the inside of the ring. “ H. J., 1646,” 
and a Latin motto, “ Hodie rnihi, eras tibi” 
“That, too, is in my father s ring ; I have seen 
it a dozen times,” she exclaimed, as the color 
came and went in her cheek. “ His name ! his 
name ! Do you know it ? ” she asked. 

The old woman looked puzzled. The white 
boy Joseph’s father we called Tepasekant.” 

“ No ! no ! I mean the English name ! 
Joseph, Joseph ; see ! Thou hast said thy 
father told thee his name. What was it ? Thou 
art called Jacobus, ’tis the same as James ! Oh, 
how strange this is. And this ring, so like my 
father’s and my uncle’s ! What does it mean ?” 

Then flashed across her memory John 
Winterthorn’s quest ; the killing of Hilary 
James by the Indians, and his son ! his son 
must have been Joseph’s father, who was not 
killed at all. It might readily be so ; or the 
ring might have been some other person’s — 
might have been stolen. Still, there was the name 
Jacobus. “ Oh, I wish I could show this ring 
to my mother,” she cried. But the old squaw 
shook her head. It was a sort of talisman to 
her, and she would not let it go out of her pos- 
session. She was superstitious about losing 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


215 


sight of it. “Then,” said Dorothy, “I will 
bring my father’s ring here and compare them. 
I am sure my mother has it. Come, Joseph, 
let us go and tell her. Oh, canst thou remem- 
ber when it was this happened ? — the time of 
year The old squaw reflected. “ ’Twas in 
the time of corn planting, when the leaves were 
as large as squirrel’s ears.” 

“ Oh, if John Winterthorn were but here,” 
said Dorothy. “He could tell us much more, 
for he has searched and learned all about it, 
and there are men living who know. Come, 
Joseph, to my mother.” She was vastly excited 
over the possibility. Suppose it should be so • 
then Joseph would be her cousin. She believed 
him to be the grandson of Hilary James, but 
how to prove it was a puzzling matter. She 
plied Joseph with questions as she hurried 
along, he only half comprehending what she 
had in mind. 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE RIGHTFUL HEIR 

Dorothy burst so suddenly into the house 
that her mother looked up reprovingly. “ Thou 
art too vehement, daughter,” she said. 

“ Ah, but mother, something so strange has 
happened. Where is the ring belonging to my 
father? Didst thou bring it with thee from 
England ? ” 

“ I did. But why dost thou ask ?” 

“ Because, oh mother ! ” and Dorothy 
poured forth her story, Mrs. Taylor becoming 
more and more interested. 

“This is certainly a surprising story,” she 
said, “but I think thou art perhaps over-confi- 
dent, Dorothy. I will get the ring.” And she 
presently brought it forth from one of her 
chests. 

“ ’Tis the very same,” emphatically declared 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


2 ! 7 


Dorothy. “The motto I cannot quite remem- 
ber, although I am quite sure ’tis the same as 
this. What does it mean, mother?” 

“It means, To-day be mine; to-morrow, thine.” 

“ And the head ? ” 

“ It is said to be a presentment of one of 
the progenitors of the James family, and was 
carved on the original ring by an Italian artist. 
This ring descended to the eldest one in the 
family for many generations, and finally in thy 
father’s branch of the family it became a custom 
to give such a ring to each one as he came of 
age. The motto is one chosen by the original 
giver, and intends to suggest : My heirship 
exists to-day, thine may come to-morrow. But 
these are only worldly matters, and, save in 
such a case as this, of little importance.” 

“But,” said Dorothy triumphantly, “they 
are of use, as we have just proved. Mother, 
do you not believe the ring Wesakhona showed 
me belonged to my father’s brother ? ” 

“ It seems possible.” 

“ And the name Jacobus ? ” 

“Yes, otherwise it were a strange coinci- 
dence.” 

“ And wilt thou write to John Winterthorn 
and ask him more about it ? ” 


218 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ I will do so. But, Dorothy, dost thou 
realize that this will mean that Joseph is the 
heir and that Jasper will be no longer so ? ” 

“ Oh, mother, I never thought of that ! ” 

“ Well, my dear, I will consult thy father.” 

Dorothy bit her lip. She did not like the 
title given to Benjamin Taylor. 

“And,” continued her mother, “we will 
take the ring and compare it with the one 
Wesakhona has.” 

“ Joseph, thou has not forgotten thy father ?” 
said Dorothy, turning to the lad who stood by. 
“And, oh, I never thought. Why, Jon Jonson 
knew him well ! Perhaps he can tell us more 
of him than any other.” 

“ Then Benjamin shall see him also. I am 
desirous of sifting the matter in order to dis- 
cover the exact truth, for that is a duty. It is 
evident, Dorothy, that thou hast stumbled upon 
a strange, romantic story. I think ’twould be 
best to say nothing of it tc Jasper until we 
have learned the whole truth. Thou wilt not 
speak of it, Joseph?” 

“ I don’t want spik at all to him,” returned 
Joseph, with a touch of defiance. And he left 
them after a curt farewell. He was disturbed 
at these discoveries. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


219 


“ Oh, mother, I did not tell thee ; Joseph 
and Jasper have quarreled,” Dorothy informed 
her mother, after Joseph had left them. 

“ Oh, my child, that is an evil thing to hear. 

I am surprised that Jasper should seek to dis- 
turb the peace of our settlement.” 

“But, you see, he thought Joseph but a 
clod-hopper.” 

“ Ah, he has yet to learn that he should be 
no respecter of persons. Should this prove 
true ’twill go hard with Jasper. He has taken 
pride in his inheritance, and I doubt not ’twill 
make him very sore, and especially now that he 
has despised Joseph, ’twill be a humiliating 
circumstance.” 

That very evening Jasper made his appear- 
ance. “ I’ve come over to confess,” he told 
Dorothy. “ I acted very badly, Dolly, but I 
didn’t understand these questions of equality, 
on which you all live over here, and I did not 
mean to do any one a wrong, but only to teach 
presumption a lesson.” 

“ Ah, but Jasper, thou wert too hasty. 
Joseph is the son of a great chief and has great 
pride in it.” 

“I know that ; but a painted savage didn’t 
seem at all akin to gentle folk, Dolly.” 


220 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ But he wasn’t an Indian ; he was a white 
man and may have come of as gentle folk as 
ourselves, Jasper.” 

“I can scarce believe that, Dolly,” laughed 
Jasper ; “anyhow, I am sorry that I was such 
an overbearing beast, and I have been to 
Joseph and have made my apologies.” 

“ Oh, I am very glad. And did he accept 
them ? ” 

“ He is quite a proud fellow, but, at last, he 
did accept my overtures as a prince might, and 
I think better of him for the manner of his 
acceptance, and his taking up my offence in 
lordly part. But, tell me, Dolly, are you 
minded to return to dear old Humphrey’s 
Hall, and leave this green raw country where 
savages are called gentles and gentles savages, 
for the last you have named me?” 

“ Ah, Jasper, my mother is too dear for me 
to leave.” 

“ But for a little space, Dolly, and when 
she is settled in her new home, and the city 
of Philadelphia has shown her its brotherly 
love I will take you back, if you say so. There 
are good people about to return. I know of a 
kindly woman who will share with me the task 
of overlooking you, since I know your mother 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


221 


would wish you to be thus had in charge. Do 
go for a short space, Dolly, dear.” 

“ But dost thou return so soon ? ” 

“ I had thought to within a fortnight.” 

“Then I will tell thee within that time,” 
replied Dorothy, thoughtfully. She was consid- 
ering what effect this strange new discovery 
would have upon Jasper, should her conjecture 
prove true. 

“ Hast heard from home ? ” she asked, after 
a moment. 

“ Yes ; my mother wrote that she and your 
uncle had been to Stafford to see after the old 
place there. Dost remember it, Dolly ? With 
its queer old, grey, tumble-down house and the 
big garden ? Your uncle says ’twill be mine 
some day, that as well as Humphrey’s 
Hall, and he, laughing, told me that since he 
had taken a new lease on life I might dwell 
there many years before I should come to mas- 
ter it at Humphrey’s Hall.” 

Dorothy felt very uncomfortable. Jasper 
was so confident, and she wished he would set 
less mind upon this heritage. “ But if thou 
hadst neither place, thou wouldst still not be a 
beggar, Jasper?” she said. 

“No; but I should be pretty poorly off. 


222 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


The little my father left me might buy a strip of 
land along your Delaware, but little else. How- 
ever, I shall be quite rich enough to laugh at 
such a notion, and to scorn to take your portion, 
Dolly, dear.” 

“ But thou dost think this a fine country ? ” 

“ Aye, fine for hunting and adventure ; for 
sport, but scarce fine for an Englishman to 
exchange for his manor hall.” 

Dorothy sighed. This all made her feel 
very sorely, and at last she changed the 
subject. 

The next day Benjamin Taylor took the ring 
with him to compare with that of old Wesak- 
hona’s, and reported that Dorothy was right ; 
they were exactly alike except that the one 
which had belonged to Dorothy’s father bore 
the initials “ M. J.” and the date “ 1663.” 

That same evening came honest Jon Jonson, 
at Benjamin Taylor’s request, and Dorothy was 
an interested listener to his broken English. 
But he could not tell the full name, the English 
name of his old friend, Joseph’s father. He had 
called him Tepasekant, and later Jacobus, he 
told them. It was quite true that he had been 
Christianized, and had been baptized, he believed, 
under another than his Indian name. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


223 


‘‘Then,” interposed Mrs. Taylor, “would 
not the pastor know ? Has he no record of it ? 
That would prove it.” 

“ Thou hast made a very good suggestion, 
Hester,” remarked Benjamin. “To-morrow I 
will see Jacobus Fabritius, and he may, per- 
chance, have some record of it.” 

This was done, but the blind old pastor did 
not at first remember that special circumstance, 
but he did bring out all his records, and in one 
old book was found this note : “To-day I bap- 
tized an Indian chief known as Tapasekant, but 
he is called in English Ilari James.” This was 
translated by Andras Bengsen for Benjamin 
Taylor, as it was written in Dutch, which the 
former understood. Then said Pastor Fabritius : 

“ I remember the circumstance now. The 
man was a white man. He said he had never 
been baptized. His father’s name was Yames. 
He had not forgotten his own boyhood’s name, 
it was the same as his father’s, Ilari. I entered 
him, therefore, as Ilari Yames, which the Swedes 
call Jacobus, and his son, when he was brought 
to me to be baptized, was called Joseph Jacob- 
son. So do names become changed in new 
countries.” 

All this was carefully written down by Ben- 


224 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


jamin Taylor, and the paper which he brought 
home corroborated the suspicions of them all. 
Ilari was Hilary, Jacobus was James. There 
was no longer any doubt. 

“ And Joseph is my cousin,” Dorothy said to 
Jon Jonson, who accompanied her step-father ; 
“ and he is heir to a good estate.” 

The Swede smiled broadly. It was such an 
unexpected thing, and he was almost as fond of 
Joseph as of one of his own children. 

“ The lad must be told,” said Benjamin Tay- 
lor, who, strict Quaker that he was, did not 
undervalue worldly riches. 

“And who will tell Jasper?” cried Dorothy. 
“ Oh, I am so sorry for him.” 

“ Shall he be told before he returns, Benja- 
min ? ” asked Mrs. Taylor. “ Do you think 
’twould be best for him to learn it now ? All 
this will have to be written to Humphrey, and 
after all, he may have many years yet to live, 
and, perhaps, even outlive both these lads.” 

“The truth is always best, Hester,” replied 
her husband, “but there is weight in what thou 
sayest, and perhaps ’twere as well to wait a 
while yet till we hear from the present pro- 
prietor of the estate.” 

Dorothy was much relieved at this decision, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


225 


but her sympathies were now on Jaspers side. 
He had honorably re-instated himself in her 
good opinion by his manly apology to Joseph, 
and he was so generous and open-hearted. It 
just occurred to her what his trip to America 
really meant ; why he had taken it for her ! for 
her ! He had been so generous as to refuse to 
accept a legacy which she had lost by following 
her mother. He had made this long journey 
for the sake of persuading her to take what he 
might otherwise have had for his own, and sud- 
denly he became a hero in her eyes. A noble- 
hearted, gallant, young knight he seemed when 
next she saw him, and she longed to invent 
some way to avoid the approaching crisis. 

Mrs. Taylor wrote to both Squire James 
and Tohn Winterthorn long explanatory letters, 
and now they were awaiting replies, which 
should bring them added proof. Meantime 
Jasper made his plans to return. 

It was, however, not in a fortnight that he 
was to go, for a circumstance took place which 
not only prevented this, but cemented the inter- 
rupted friendship, which had begun between the 
two boys. 

The English lad threw himself into a 
hunter’s pursuits with great heartiness, and 

15 


226 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


made many a trip to the forest with Joseph, or, 
if he were not available, would go alone, often 
bringing home a goodly store of game, the 
greater part of which found its way into Dame 
Taylor’s larder. 

Jasper was brave and venturesome, but one 
day he counted too securely upon his powers ; 
for, being out alone, he wounded a large buck, 
and, supposing he had killed the creature, he 
made too near an approach, to find the stunned 
animal reviving and ready to make an 
onslaught upon the young hunter. The huge 
antlers were dangerous enough at close range, 
and Jasper was obliged to fight for his life. He 
had fired his last shot, and had but his knife 
with which to defend himself. 

It was a sharp tussle, and he was getting 
the worst of it — wounded, bleeding and stag- 
gering, making futile efforts to strike a vital 
part of the deer before the enraged creature 
should get him under foot ; for, delicate as the 
dainty hoofs were, they held the power to stamp 
out the boy’s life. As a last hope he gave a 
loud cry for aid, breathlessly gasping “ Help ! 
help i 99 The shout rang through the silent 
woods. 

There was a snapping of twigs, a crackling of 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


22 7 


bushes, then an unerring arrow sang through 
the air, and the noble buck, after one spring, 
fell lifeless on the ground beside the boy, who, 
well-nigh exhausted, lay pale and bleeding. 

He was aroused by the touch of a gentle 
hand ; by the forcing of spirits between his 
clenched teeth, and, opening his eyes, he saw 
the dark face of Joseph bending over him. 

“ Dat vas a badt sitivation,” said the 
Swede’s boy, gravely. “ Are you feel somet’ing 
bedter ? ” 

Jasper replied faintly, and Joseph at last 
managed to staunch the blood and bind up his 
wounds. 

Jasper felt very helpless, and when he real- 
ized his condition he was quite humiliated. He 
had been so confident in his own prowess, and 
the other boy saw him worsted. But Joseph’s 
sure aim had saved his life, and Jasper was 
ready to acknowledge it. 

“ Except for you I should have been over- 
come,” he whispered. “ I should have taken 
your advice, Joseph, and not come out alone. 
I was too sure of myself. I did not believe 
the buck could turn on me. I thought I had 
killed him, and to my sorrow found he was but 
stunned.” 


228 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ He is fine, fat buck,” replied Joseph, 
ignoring the first part of Jasper’s speech. “ I 
get you to some place, and den I kom back for 
buck.” 

He got Jasper to his feet, but the lad was 
too faint to walk, aside from the fact that his 
wounds broke out afresh at every effort he made. 
“I carry you.” Joseph decided calmly. “I 
haf carry more heavier somet’ings dan an 
Englishman.” And he laughed. The lighting 
up of his grave face was always good to see. 
“I am dake you to my grandmudder,” he con- 
tinued. “ She is not farder away.” 

Jasper, growing more faint, could make no 
protest, but allowed himself to be lifted to 
Joseph’s back, and through the woods they 
went. It was a heavy burden for the boy of 
seventeen, but he bravely fitted his shoulders 
to it, and although he panted under the weight, 
and at last staggered, he finally managed to 
reach the log house where dwelt old Wesakhona, 
and, drawing sharp, quick breaths, he paused 
before it ; then, with a long sigh, shifted the 
heavy body to the ground and found that Jasper 
had fainted dead away. When the injured lad 
came to his senses he found he was lying on a 
bed of skins in a room where a fire blazing 

o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


229 


merrily showed primitive simplicity of furnish- 
ing. Over him was bending an old Indian 
woman, whose ministrations soon made him 
feel more comfortable, and whose potions, 
before long, caused him to fall into a deep 
slumber, from which he awakened to find Joseph 
sitting by his side. From this time out the 
invalid could not bear his rescuer out of his 
sight, and Joseph, in turn, devoted himself dili- 
gently to the English boy. 

Meanwhile the vessel, on which Jasper 
expected to return, set sail, and he was obliged 
to lengthen his stay whether he would or not. 
And as soon as he was well enough he returned 
to Jon Jonson’s, where was waited upon and 
looked after with every care. 

“ Oh, I am very glad,” said Dorothy, when 
her cousin told her the ship had sailed without 
him. 

“ Now, Dorothy,” returned he, “ that is 
unkind, you are glad I am hurt ? ” 

“ Nay, I said not that. I am greatly grieved 
at such mishap, but I am glad thou wilt be with 
us yet longer.” 

“ But, an if thou shouldst have gone, too ? ” 

“Ah, Jasper, that would be a sorry decree 
for me to make. I fear I should never pluck 


230 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


up courage to leave my mother. I am glad 
thou hast seen us in our new home. Yet I fear 
thou hast had enough of hunting and will find 
naught to amuse thee.” 

“ Shall 1 not ? There is more than follow- 
ing the chase to interest me. I shall be glad to 
see the spring open.” 

“Yes, it is a fair season here, they say. 
Tina tells me the peach orchards alone are a 
sight worth seeing. Already thou hast tasted 
the delicious fresh shad. Is it not a fine dish ? 
That which we have had during the winter is 
smoked, but I like the fresh fish better.” 

“And I, too. In sooth, ’tis not the food in 
this new country we need to quarrel with.” 

“ What then ? ” 

“I scarce know how to say what it is affects 
me. ’Tis, I think, the rawness of it. I long for 
the old houses ; the fine estates ; the grand old 
castles and cathedrals ; the pictures and what 
not.” 

“ Ah, wait till thou seest the Proprietary’s 
fine new dwelling, and they say we shall have 
many ere long in and around Philadelphia. I 
think, in time, ’twill be a fair place to live, and 
city ways will not be hard to maintain. I wish 
thou wert going to be here to see us in the 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


231 


new house, but ’tis good to have had thee 
here.” 

This was Jasper’s first outing since his hurt. 
He had managed to mount a gentle pony, and, 
with Joseph, had ridden as far as Benjamin 
Taylor’s. Now the boy and his cousin were 
sitting in the big living room together. 

Ere long they heard the measured steps of 
Benjamin outside the door. He carried Letters 
in his hand and brought news of the arrival of 
a ship from England. A glad look came into 
Jasper’s eyes, but Dorothy shrank away. She 
knew what the news must mean for him. 

“Where is thy mother, Dorothy ?” asked 
her step-father. 

“ She has gone to the stable with Joseph. 
He brought her some eggs, which they are 
setting under one of the hens.” 

“Joseph is here then ; that is well.” 

Dorothy looked up deprecatingly. She 
knew the moment had come when Jasper must 
be told of his disinheritance. How would it 
affect him ? And how would he now feel 
toward Joseph, who had grown so near to him 
in these weeks past, so near that they seemed 
almost like brothers ? 



CHAPTER XV 

SECOND FIDDLE 

Dorothy started nervously when she heard 
the voices of her mother and Joseph coming 
nearer. Jasper had not begun to read his 
letters ; he had only opened them and glanced 
at the signatures. 

“ Perhaps thou hadst better wait a moment, 
Jasper,” Benjamin Taylor said, gently. “Hester 
and I have somewhat to say to thee.” 

The lad looked up in surprise, but made no 
objection and courteously assented. “ As you 
wish, sir. I am at your service.” 

“ Hester,” her husband addressed her as 
she entered. “I have here a letter from Hum- 
phrey James.” He opened it and spread it out 
upon his knee. “ I think there is one from his 
wife, and also one from John Winterthorn for 

thee, so says Humphrey James. Sit thee 
282 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


2 33 


down, Joseph ; this concerns thee, too. Thou 
knowest we have been for some time endeavor- 
ing to discover thy rightful name. Jasper, 
Joseph is named Joseph James. He is thy near 
kin ; thine and Dorothy’s.” 

Jasper looked up in amazement. “ What, 
sir!” he exclaimed, “how comes it about! I 
never dreamed of such a thing.” 

“ It came about through the strange discov- 
ery of a ring, and through thy Cousin Dorothy’s 
wit, when the old pastor spoke to her, by chance, 
of her name being the same. James is the Eng- 
lish for Jacob or Jacobus, and Jacobson is the 
Swedes’ way of rendering the lad’s name. 
Joseph’s father being Jacobus, he became 
Jacob’s son, as Dorothy happened to puzzle it 
out.” 

“ Ah, my coz, I owe this new relative to you. 
I thank you heartily,” said Jasper. “I should 
not at first, I am ashamed to confess, have felt 
so about it ; but,” and he held out his hand to 
his new cousin, “ I want no better friend or 
cousin than Joseph. Is it not so, my dear 
fellow ? ” 

Joseph’s rare smile lighted up his face, but 
Dorothy looked distressed, and had nothing to 
say. 


234 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Her step-father cleared his throat and 
glanced helplessly at his wife. Then he 
straightened himself up and began in a loud, 
decided tone: “And now, Jasper, thou must, 
perforce prepare thyself for the unpleasant part 
of this. Joseph is thy Cousin Humphrey James’s 
own grandnephew, his brother’s grandson.” 

Jasper looked puzzled. “I’m all at sea, sir. 
I thought I knew the family history pretty well. 
May I ask who was Joseph’s father ? ” 

“ Hilary James, whose father was also 
Hilary James, and was Humphrey James’s 
brother,” 

As Jasper began to take in the situation the 
color came suddenly to his cheek, and then 
faded away, leaving him quite pale. “Then — 
then — he is the heir to the estate Humphrey’s 
Hall,” he said, slowly ; “ and I — oh, Dolly ! ” he 
stretched out his hands to her, and she flew to 
him, kneeling down by his side and taking one 
of his hands in hers, saying : 

“ Oh, Jasper ! oh, Jasper ! I knew it would 
strike thee sorely. Ah, my poor Jasper, I am 
so grieved for thee ! ” 

“I dondt understands ” spoke up Joseph. 
Slowly and carefully Benjamin Taylor went 
over the details. He read John Winterthorn’s 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 235 

letter, which named one William Osborne as 
the neighbor from whom he had heard of Hilary 
James’ death. His facts corresponded with 
those of Wesakhona. Next, the Squire’s letter 
was read ; he acknowledged the rightful claim- 
ant to the estate ; he wished him to proceed 
immediately to England to be educated as befit- 
ted his station ; he would receive him as became 
his brother’s grandson. “ Say to our Cousin 
Jasper that although he may not inherit the 
estates, that if he follow out his intentions as 
declared to me before his leaving home, that he 
shall yet enjoy such as I am free to give,” he 
wrote. 

Jasper’s hand closed closely around Dor- 
othy’s, but he said nothing, and Benjamin read 
on. “ There is a certain amount due to the 
heir coming from his grandfather’s inheritance, 
this outside the entailed estate. ’Tis not a 
large amount, some thousand pounds or so, 
but he may like to know of it.” 

All this was explained carefully to Joseph, 
who was quick to understand. He sat silently 
looking into the fire, while Jasper, one hand 
holding Dorothy’s and the other supporting his 
head, also gazed into the glowing fireplace. A 
silence fell upon them all. Jasper’s letters lay 


236 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


unheeded. Mrs. Taylor was busy examining 
her own packets. 

At last Joseph arose and went over to 
Jasper, laying his hand on his shoulder. “ I 
am not dake them,” he said. “My grandfader’s 
money, yes; de oder, de lan’, no, I will not. I 
wish not go away. I am American. I sday 
hereby wit Yon Yonson. I am not go to a 
sdrange countries what is not know me an’ my 
vays. I am puy me some lan’, and I am sday 
here foreffer. I am your gousin ; for dat I am 
gladt. I am de gousin of Dorotie ; for dat I am 
gladt, but I go not avay. No, no, I am — what 
is it you say ? I am gif oop. I am renounze all 
de lan’. Dere is blenty here dat I lige petter ; 
de lan’ of my forefader’s. I am brudder to de 
redt man and de vite, I cannot gif oop one for 
de oder. I sday py both.” 

“ When thou art of age, ’twill be different, 
perhaps,” suggested Benjamin Taylor. 

“No, no, I am alway de zame. I can spik 
de Inyan, de Swedish, de Inglis. I am learn all 
I wish here. I love all here, no one before de 
oder, so I sday, alway, alway ! ” 

“It is like thee, Joseph. Thou wert always 
loyal and true and generous,” said Dorothy, 
in a low tone. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


237 


Jasper roused himself. “ I have always said 
I would never play second fiddle,” he remarked, 
with a little smile. “Yet now I must; but, 
Joseph, I will not accept the lands. However, 
there is time enough yet before you come of 
age. Meantime we are friends and cousins, and 
my friend and kinsman, I thank you for your 
generosity in wanting me to have the lands. I 
appreciate it. After all, it depends upon the 
Squire’s lease of life. You have a little slice of 
your own, for which I am glad. Shake hands, 
my dear fellow. There, I congratulate you,” 
and Jasper gave a toss of his bonny head, and 
looked with an honest, friendly eye into Joseph’s, 
while their hands met in a hard grip. 

“ That is right,” said Benjamin Taylor, with 
an approving nod. “ Peace, peace at all hazards. 
Thou hast both acted like Christian gentlemen, 
and I am glad to have witnessed so lovely and 
tender a spirit. Thou hast not read thy letters, 
Dorothy,” he turned to her to say. 

“Here is one for thee, Joseph, from thy 
Uncle Humphrey,” said Mrs. Taylor. Every 
one smiled. It seemed so strange to name the 
Squire to him. 

Dorothy thought of Joseph at Humphrey’s 
Hall. How queer it would be ! She was pleased 


238 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

enough that he had decided to give it up, and 
hoped he would not alter his decision. 

“Here, Dolly, see what my mother says,” 
Jasper drew her attention by saying, and Doro- 
thy took the letter he held out to her. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” she read. “What a 
great blow is this ! I am stopped short in my 
happiness. Such a catastrophe ! Alas ! that I 
should have brought it about by sending Doro- 
thy to her mother ! If I had only waited and 
allowed events to take their own course all this 
might never have happened. So, by your 
mother’s hand you are made to suffer. Forgive 
me, my dear son, I cannot forgive myself, and 
when I contemplate the future, when a half 
savage shall reign over Humphrey’s Hall, I feel 
I am punished desperately for every sin I ever 
committed.” 

“ Poor mother,” said Jasper, “ I must hasten 
back to comfort her. ’Tis a sad blow to her, I 
doubt not.” 

“Ah, Jasper, must thou then go soon ? ” 

“ I think so, dear coz, and before then we must 
have one of our old talks. I am scarce fit as 
yet for travel, but I think I shall be in the course 
of a week. When shall you be over to see Tina? 
I shall see you then, Dolly, shall I not? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


239 


“Yes, I will come as soon as I can ; with 
two cousins living at the Jonsons, I am not 
now forbidden to go there, and am sure of soon 
making a visit. But, Jasper, even if thou lose 
thy estate, thou wilt still have something, wilt 
thou not? What did my uncle’s message mean 
but that? Wilt thou not inherit Gray Towers 
and other of his personal estate?” 

“That depends,” replied Jasper, smiling 
down on her. 

“ On what ? ” 

“ I will tell you when I see you at the 
Swede’s. Good-bye, Dolly, Cousin Joseph is 
waiting for me,” he smiled a little wistfully ; 
“come soon.” 

“I will,” she returned, and with a thankful 
heart she saw the two lads ride off together, 
for now the dread disclosure had been made, 
and all had turned out so much better than she 
had hoped. 

She paid her promised visit to Tina in a 
few days, and although she and Jasper had 
their long talk, the presence of Tina and Joseph 
prevented the boy from saying all that he had 
intended. He was fast recovering his usual 
strength, and expected to sail for home within 
the next week. 


240 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


It was two or three days later that he 
appeared to make his farewells, and since the 
small log dwelling was not so inviting as the 
outside world which the spring weather was daily 
making more attractive, the boy and girl wan- 
dered forth into the blossom-smelling country. 

“Is not the spring most lovely here?” said 
Dorothy, stopping to view orchards all a-bloom. 

“ It is, yet I shall be glad to see our own 
hedge rows again.” 

“There are rare pretty flowers here. I 
never saw such. I will show thee where I dis- 
covered some but yesterday, of a size and color 
finer than thou canst believe.” 

“ And what have you been doing besides 
gathering flowers since I saw you, Dolly ? ” 

“ On First day we went to meeting, and I 
saw the Proprietary there, and many good 
Friends. It was a good meeting.” 

“And were you much edified, my fair 
cousin ? Of what did you think during the 
silent moments ? ” 

Dorothy blushed. “ I cannot tell thee, 
Jasper. I tried to think of holy things.” 

“And did not succeed, eh? There, Dolly 
dear, I will not tease, for this is our farewell, 
and I have much to say to you, since you will 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


241 


not go back to England where I could have 
bided my time and have said it better.” 

“If we go further we shall get in swampy 
ground. Let us sit here, Jasper, on this fallen 
log. Is it not a peaceful spot ? Ah, ’twill be 
many a day before we two look upon these 
scenes again, I fear.” 

“ Perhaps not, my Dolly, dear, for do you 
know what it is I have to say to you ? Look 
at me, my coz. Dost love me, Dolly ? ” 

“ Ah, Jasper, thou knowest I love thee right 
well. Hast thou not been always my dear 
and near cousin ?” 

“ Ah, but I would be more, some day. Dolly, 
I did say to your uncle that one day I would 
marry you if you would take me for a husband, 
and he was greatly pleased, and ’twas then he 
bade me come and bear you his love and greet- 
ing and his wishes to see you.” 

“Ah, Jasper,” Dorothy faltered, “I am but 
a little maid. I have never thought of such 
things.” 

“ But you will some day, Dolly. My mother 
was not a year older than you when she 
married.” 

“ Thy mother ! ” 

“Yes, she was but sixteen when she married 


16 


242 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

my father, who was but twenty-one. In two 
years I shall be as old as he, and you a year 
older than my mother was. Ah, dear, do not 
look scared, nor as if you would run away.” 

“ But, Jasper, if my mother had known of 
these speeches of thine she had not allowed me 
to come with thee.” 

“Not with me, with whom you have walked 
and played and romped for days at a time ever 
since we were babies ? Dolly, I will come back 
for you when I am twenty-one, ’twill be about 
two years from now.” 

“ Oh, Jasper ! ” Dorothy looked down and 
twisted the long stem of a flower around her 
finger in her embarrassment. 

“You do love me. Say you do,” he persisted. 

“ I do love thee ; but that way — I don’t 
know. How can I tell ? ” 

“ You love no one better ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no.” 

“And you will not let Joseph marry you 
before I get back ? ” 

“ Oh, Jasper, never. I could not.” 

“ Ah, then ! ” he cried, exultantly, “you do 
know that you could not marry Joseph, but you 
do not say you will not marry me. Say again, 
Dolly, you love me best.” 



Dolly looked down and twisted the long stem of a flower around 

her finger — Page 242 



























THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


243 


“ I do ! I do ! ” 

“ Better than anyone ? ” 

“Than my mother? I cannot say that.” 

“ Well, I will not urge it. I shall be satis- 
fied with your promise to marry no one, to give 
your word to no one till you see me again. Say 
this : ‘ I will wait for thee, Jasper.’ Say it, 
Dolly.” 

“I will wait for thee, Jasper,” repeated the 
little maid, softly, rising to her feet. 

“ Ah, my sweeting. I know now you will, 
for the Quakers speak the truth, and you say 
you are a little Quaker.” 

He took her face between his hands and 
looked at her long and tenderly, till the blue 
eyes fell before his gaze. She felt suddenly 
conscious and afraid ; she, who had ever been 
unrestrained and free in his presence. She had 
forgotten that womanhood was so near, and 
Jasper, in this new light, became suddenly 
lifted into a world of thought hitherto unex- 
plored. He seemed surrounded by a veil of 
mystery to her. Yet, as they walked along 
hand in hand, saying little, the boy dreaded the 
moment of parting more keenly than the girl, 
for he had kept this moment in mind for more 
than one year. 


244 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Dolly,” he said, after a silence interrupted 
only by the singing of the birds in the trees 
above them, “ that was why I was so wroth 
with Joseph.” 

“Why, Jasper?” 

“ Because I was jealous.” 

“ Oh ! ” Dorothy’s face dimpled and she 
laughed outright. 

“ Is it so funny ? ” 

“ Oh, it is. I cannot imagine such a thing. 
He is our cousin, Jasper, and I am fond of him. 
Think, he is the only relative, besides my mother, 
that I shall have here when thou art gone.” 

“Yes, I know, and I am proud of him. Some- 
times I wish, after all, that he would go to Eng- 
land and live at Humphrey’s Hall, while we could 
live at Gray Towers. ’Twas there the Squire 
said we should live when we were married.” 

Dorothy shrank away a little. “ Oh, Jasper, 
I forgot,” she faltered. 

“What, Dolly?” 

“That if — that this means I should have to 
go to England to live.” 

“ Where else, sweetheart ? ” 

“ I had not thought where. Ah, Jasper, 
it surely divides one’s heart.” 

“ Ah, well, Dolly dearest, let it not trouble 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


245 


you now. Only keep your word to me, and we 
shall see. Who knows what may happen when 
Joseph comes of age ? I may yet plant my 
fortunes in this new country.” 

“ Oh, Jasper.” Dorothy drew closer. 

“That pleases you? Well, Dolly, we can- 
not tell. Only be true to me and let time 
settle the rest. We are nearly at the end of 
our walk. I will not go in, for I have made my 
adieux to your mother and Mr. Taylor. I join 
the ship at New Castle this evening, and I must 
hasten to get there. Once more swear that 
you will wait for me.” 

“Nay, I cannot swear.” 

“ Oh, I forgot. Then promise solemnly, 
sweetheart ; promise nothing, no one, shall keep 
you from me — you will be true.” 

“ I promise.” 

The boy bent over and kissed her pure 
white forehead. “ Now, farewell, dear heart,” 
he murmured. And with something very like 
tears in his eyes he turned away, and Dorothy 
watched him disappear down the path. At the 
edge of the wood he turned and waved his 
hand, and Dorothy gave an answering signal. 

“Ah, me,” she sighed, “ ’twas easy to 
promise.” 



CHAPTER XVI 

A SOBER SUITOR 

It was two years since Hester Taylor had 
fled from her English home, and, now, with new 
surroundings and new associations, it seemed 
hard to believe that she had ever been other 
than a demure Quakeress in a community of 
Friends. The memory of her life in England 
became more and more dim, and all her inter- 
ests were centered in this new existence. Her 
garb grew plainer and plainer ; her likes and 
dislikes were those approved by her strong, 
decided husband, and her opinions were largely 
those which he maintained. Therefore, Dor- 
othy missed the mother who, in years gone by, 
was wont to be often merry, always tender, 
and never opposed to the innocent pursuits and 
pleasures of her little girl So strict a code of 
morals was laid down for Dorothy that she felt 
crushed and repressed at every turn. 

246 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


247 


This was, doubtless, one reason why her 
thoughts turned more and more toward Jasper, 
whom she missed greatly. The remembrance 
of that last walk became increasingly precious. 
At first she was bewildered, and but half com- 
prehended all that it involved. She was only 
a little girl, but in those days girls matured 
early, and frequently married at an age that 
would now be considered far too young. And 
by the end of the year, which marked her six- 
teenth birthday, she had come to look forward 
with happiness to the time when Jasper should 
return for her. 

This was the first secret Dorothy had ever 
kept from her mother. She meant to tell her 
— of course, she did — but day after day she 
shrank from it, as her mother invited less con- 
fidence. She was lonelier than she remem- 
bered being since that week after her mother 
had sailed for America, for she was seldom 
allowed to visit Tina, and Jasper’s rather 
infrequent letters were her greatest solace. 

Joseph refused flatly to go to his uncle, 
and in time the Squire ceased to urge it. 
Thus the days and weeks went on quietly, 
with no unusual event to ruffle the quiet 
routine. First-day meetings ; monthly and 


248 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


quarterly meetings made up the principal sum 
of excitement. The incidents brought to light 
by the strict observance of discipline, caused 
many little scandals to be aired and discussed, 
and there were controversies and janglings even 
that soon. The church party was early an 
antagonistic element, which the Quakers stead- 
ily opposed, and later caused, through George 
Keith, a large disaffection in the ranks of the 
Quakers. 

There were constantly new arrivals to the 
colony. One of the more important settlements 
being made by the Menonites, who planted 
themselves at Germantown, their belief being 
so nearly like that of the Quakers that the two 
sects fraternized at once. 

All these things Dorothy heard discussed, 
and began to feel the claims of an old resident. 

Yet, peaceful and prosperous as the Quak- 
ers were, compared to other colonies, and free 
as they were in their new home, in New Eng- 
land and other places they were still perse- 
cuted and ostracized, and many of the new- 
comers were those who had escaped from hard 
usage to enjoy the great advantages which 
Pennsylvania offered to the oppressed. 

Benjamin Taylor had given up his farm near 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


249 


Upland, and Dorothy had seldom an opportun- 
ity of visiting her old friends ; instead she was 
bidden to seek the society of those of her own 
community. 

“ My niece and her friends are surely better 
companions for thee than the Swede’s girl,” 
said Benjamin Taylor, in the superior way 
which Dorothy disliked. 

This niece and her half-sister were the prim- 
mest sort of little Quakeresses. They were 
both older than Dorothy, and lived very near, 
with Jane Satterthwaite, who was Benjamin 
Taylor’s sister, and whom Dorothy was bidden 
to call Aunt Jane. The girl hated to see Jane’s 
buxom figure looming up in the distance, for it 
meant a cross-questioning, a lecture, or a com- 
placent recital of her own home affairs in which 
comparisons were made decidedly odious, for 
Mistress Jane was much like her brother, and 
felt it her constant duty to “deal” with 
Dorothy. 

“Thou wert not at meeting on Third day, 
Dorothy,” she began one morning, having come 
in early, “to ferret,” Dorothy told herself. 

“No, my mother was not well, and I was 
needed at home.” 

“ Thy mother spoils thee ; where is she ? ” 


250 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ She is lying down.” 

“ At this hour? ” 

Dorothy bit her lips. “ She is not well ; she 
had a bad night.” 

“ She encourages herself too greatly in 
yielding to her ailments,” said Jane, with the 
scorn of one who did not know what it was to 
be ill. 

“ She has a right to yield to an illness. It 
is a free country,” answered the girl, shortly. 

“ Thy tone is offensive, Dorothy. My girls 
do not speak to me in such manner. Where 
is thy father? ” 

“ In heaven, I hope.” 

“ Dorothy ! thou art truly in need of dis- 
cipline. I must speak to thy father that he 
teach thee to curb thy speech.” 

“ I would he were here to teach me any- 
thing,” returned the girl, defiantly. “ My father 
is Marmaduke James and no other.” 

“Thou art very ungrateful, and of a bad 
and rebellious nature. I had meant to ask 
thee to come to tea with us this evening ; thy 
father wishes thee to associate freely with my 
daughters.” Dorothy was silent, and the 
woman watched her. “ After all,” she con- 
tinued, “thou wouldst better come, for Hannah 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


251 


and Judith may be able to set thee an example 
of meekness and humility. Although Hannah 
is not my own daughter, she yields me a gentle 
obedience thou wouldst do well to imitate. Tell 
thy mother I came over. Hast thou heard from 
thy kin in England lately ? ” 

“No,” returned Dorothy, again shortly. 

“ That tone again. Thou art sadly in need 
of discipline,” and Jane Satterthwaite marched 
out, leaving Dorothy hot and rebellious. 

“Meek! I should think they were meek. 
I’m tired of hearing about meekness and humil 
ity ; my uncle used to say he liked a girl with 
spirit, but here one hears nothing but ‘turn the 
other cheek/ I wonder that I ever wanted to 
be a Quaker. I dare not call my soul my 
own.” Thus Dorothy soliloquized. 

Nevertheless, she did go to see the Satter- 
thwaite girls that evening. Demure maidens 
they were, soft-voiced and gentle. Judith, once 
in a while, showed a snap of mischief, but 
Hannah’s dove-like eyes never wore any but 
an expression of gentleness. The latter did 
not approve of Dorothy ; she was several 
years her elder, and was Jane Satterthwaite’s 
step-daughter, for which reasons Dorothy felt 
less called upon to be intimate with her. 


252 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ I do not see how thou canst call thyself a 
Friend,” she said, as Dorothy gave vent to 
some expression of discontent. 

Dorothy was about to give a hasty reply, 
but she refrained and only drew a long sigh. 
She was not very well satisfied with herself, 
and knew that she was developing, under a 
regime of stern criticism, a spirit, very unlike 
that which she had tried to cultivate. 

“ Never mind, Dorothy,” said Judith. “ One 
cannot always be as meek as Moses, when it is 
in her to be the opposite. Dost know we 
expect a visitor this evening, and we are quite 
exercised over it ? ” 

‘‘Who is it?” asked Dorothy, quite inter- 
ested. 

“ A young man who has just came through 
many trials in New England. He was twice 
tied to the tail of a cart and whipped out of 
town, and he has had various indignities put 
upon him because he would maintain the truth, 
and my mother is most eager to receive him. 
His name is Silas Price.” 

Dorothy professed herself quite anxious 
likewise, to see this hero who had stood up so 
steadfastly for the truth, and she was so ready 
to denounce the Puritans that Judith declared 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


253 


she must be a Quaker after all, even if she did 
not possess a meek spirit. 

However, when the guest arrived and Doro- 
thy saw a lean, lank, young man with straight 
sandy hair, sharp grey, blinking eyes, set close 
together in a cadaverous visage, a high nasal 
voice, and an awkward carriage, she was not 
prepossessed, and when she discovered that his 
ears had been cropped straight across, she 
shrank from him, so unpleasantly did this muti- 
lation affect her. The other two girls, never- 
theless, were assiduous in their attentions, 
taking their cue from their mother, who lionized 
her guest quite as much as was compatible with 
Quaker custom. 

Despite the fact of her keeping in the back- 
ground, to Dorothy’s chagrin, after supper was 
over, and she made ready to depart, the young 
man arose and said, “ I am minded to see thee 
home, Dorothy James.” 

“ ’Tis not necessary,” she hastened to say ; 
“I have but a short walk, and ’tis not yet 
dark.” 

“ Nay, but I have said I would go,” he 
replied, mildly ; and Dorothy knew there was 
no escape. 

Judith’s eyes were full of merriment, but 


254 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Hannah looked very grave, and bade Dor- 
othy farewell with even more formality than 
usual. 

Philadelphia was fast becoming a city. 
Already over a hundred houses had been 
erected beyond the tall bluff fronting the Dela- 
ware — now graded down to the water’s edge. 
The houses were surrounded with fair, pleasant 
grounds, and as each new home was added to 
the number already occupied, the place assumed 
a busier look. 

“Thou wilt have a city here before many 
months,” remarked Silas, as he and Dorothy 
proceeded along their way. 

“Shall we not?” replied she, with some 
pride. “ And we are soon to have a new meet- 
ing-house, though at some distance away. Hast 
thou traveled much over the city’s grounds, 
Silas Price ? ” 

“Nay, not far. I started to-day to go so 
far as the Schuylkill, but I feared to lose myself 
in the forest, and turned back. ’Tis a goodly 
country thy Governor hath found, and more 
salubrious than New England.” 

“And not so harsh in many directions,” 
returned Dorothy. 

“ Thou art right. It is a most tender and 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


255 


loving community, and seems to me, oppressed, 
like a living spring in a thirsty land.” 

“ And dost thou intend to dwell here ? ” 

“ I am much moved toward it, but I cannot 
tell ; it may be that I shall feel a call to go 
elsewhere to bear witness to the truth. Thy 
father is Benjamin Taylor, is he not ? The 
brother of Jane Satterthwaite ? ” 

“ My step-father is Benjamin Taylor,” 
answered Dorothy. 

The young man gave her a swift, side-long 
glance, but made no comment. 

It was growing dusk, and, as they walked 
along the street — which was nothing more than 
a country road — sweet breaths of spring met 
their nostrils. The distance between houses 
was great ; for, as yet, they were scattered, 
and ample grounds stretched between. It was 
very quiet, and somewhat lonely in places, 
where bushes and underbrush stretched along- 
side, and trees darkened the way. Presently 
from out of the copse sprung a man, who 
caught Silas by the shoulder. Dorothy gave 
a little suppressed scream, but Silas said 
quietly : “ Friend, what wouldst thou ? ” 

The man lessened his grasp, and drew 
back, muttering, “It’s you is, it?” 


256 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Silas followed him up, repeating, “ What 
wouldst thou, friend ? ” at the same time tak- 
ing a handful of coins from his pocket, he 
offered them, saying, “ Is it money thou 
wouldst have of me? ” 

“ No,” the man said, surlily. 

Silas slipped off his coat and held it out, 
“Is it raiment thou dost wish? ” 

“No, I want nothing,” growled the man. “I 
didn’t know it was you. I want nothing from you.” 

Silas put on his coat again, and stood 
regarding the man. “ Ah, I seem to know 
thee,” he said, after a few minutes. “ ’Twas 
thou who wast most fierce in thy bestowal of 
stripes a short season since. Thy name is 
Preserved Tatnall.” 

“You have kept it in mind, and no 
wonder,” returned the man. “Well, here I am. 
What are you going to do about it ? I sup- 
pose it’s an eye for an eye ? ” 

“ Nay, friend. I have no need of thee. 

‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ I have 
naught against thee. Go in peace.” And 
turning to Dorothy, he said : “ Shall we con- 
tinue our way ? ” 

The man shrank back into the bushes, and 
Dorothy, wondering, kept by Silas’ side. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


257 


“Who was the man, and what did he 
mean ? ” she asked. “ Surely he was thine 
enemy.” 

“Yea, he was and, perchance, is; I was 
beaten with many stripes in New England, and 
yon man was the executioner, but thou know- 
est, Dorothy James, that ’tis the part of a 
Friend to bear no malice. I know not what the 
man does here. He mistook me for some 
other, I opine, and was amazed to see me.” 

“Thou wert very tender toward him,” said 
Dorothy. And she smiled to think what a 
fierce conflict there would have been had Jasper 
occupied a like position. 

After this evening there was scarce a day 
that Silas’ spare figure did not appear at Ben- 
jamin Taylor’s door, finding a ready welcome 
from all but Dorothy, who, though she knew 
him to be a most exemplary young man, could 
not feel at ease in his presence, and never 
could, in looking at him, lose her horror of his 
cropped ears. She was, therefore, made very 
uncomfortable when her mother said to her one 
day, “ Dorothy, I should be greatly pleased to 
see thee show more favor to Silas Price.” 

“ But why, mother? ” 

“ Because my child, thou wilt soon come to 


17 


2 5 8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


woman’s estate, and a good husband is a 
desirable thing.” 

“ Oh! ” Dorothy cried out, as if hurt. 

Her mother looked at her with serious eyes ; 
then she continued. “Thou art young, I know, 
Dorothy, scarce seventeen yet, and I would not 
have thee marry at once. Yet before I go 
hence I should be well content to know thy 
intentions were toward so godly a man as Silas.” 

“ Oh, mother, mother, do not say so. I can- 
not; I am promised to — to my Cousin Jasper.” 

“ Dorothy ! ” 

“ Oh, mother, I speak truly.” 

“ And I thought thee over young to think of 
such things. But he is not of thy faith. Thou 
wouldst not marry out of meeting, Dorothy ? ” 

“ Oh, mother, I forgot all that at the time. 
I have meant many times to tell thee all about 
it, but of late thou hast seemed so far from me 
I could not. ’Twas the day that Jasper left us 
that he drew the promise from me. He said 
in two years he would come back for me, and 
I gave my word that I would wait.” 

“ But, Dorothy, how canst thou marry out 
of meeting ? ” 

“ And if I am a Friend, how can I break 
my word ? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 259 

Her mother sighed. “ I am deeply grieved, 
my daughter, for thy father brought me word 
this morning that Silas Price had told him he 
was moved to ask thee in marriage.” 

“ But I am not so disposed toward him. I 
never could give him such love as I do Jasper. 
I respect him. He is very, very good ; but, nay, 
mother, do not urge it.” 

“Wouldstthou be turned out of meeting* 
Dorothy? for that surely wouldst thou be if 
thou didst marry Jasper.” 

“ Perhaps he would become a Friend if he 
were dealt with properly. And, mother, it is 
my uncle’s dear desire to see us wed.” 

“ Yes, I doubt it not. When didst thou hear 
from Jasper ? ” 

“ It has been near four long months, and I 
am sorely distressed at it ; but I can trust 
Jasper, I know I can.” 

“Alack, my child, he is very young; per- 
chance he has changed his mind ere this. Of so 
young a lad could nothing less be expected. 
Give over thinking of him, Dorothy.” 

“ Oh, mother, I cannot.” 

“ Dorothy, dear, not to please me? ” 

“ Oh, mother !” The girl was melted. It 
had been long since such an appeal had been 


26 o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


made, and her eyes filled with tears. “ I would 
do anything — anything else, but I do love him. 

I am young, I know, but I think I shall never 
love elsewhere.” 

Her mother was silent for a short space, and 
then she leaned over the girl, who sat at her 
feet. “ My daughter,” she said, in a tremulous 
tone, “thou wilt not have me with thee long.” 

The girl lifted a startled face, and a look of 
terror crept into her eyes, as she saw the grave, 
tender regret in the countenance above her. 

“ I know it, dear,” her mother went on. “ I 
have known for some months that ’twas only 
a question of time — perhaps a few months — 
when I must leave thee.” 

“ No ! No ! ” the girl broke out ; “ I will not, 
will . not believe it.” 

“Will it be less hard when the time comes 
to know thou hast given me peace and con- 
tent?” 

“ Oh, mother, mother ! What wouldst thou 
have me say? ” 

“ But this : should Jasper not return at the 
end of the two years, that thou wilt give a 
favorable ear to Silas. I shall be content with 
that promise. I shall know thou art in the 
keeping of a good man.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 261 

“ And dost thou not believe Jasper to be as 
good and noble ?” 

“ I have a great affection for Jasper, and 
were he a Friend, I would not wish better for 
thee.” 

“Then, if Jasper returns, and will not turn 
Friend?” 

“ Then thou must let thy guardians decide 
for thee. I exact no conditions beyond that, 
although it grieves me to think of thy marry- 
ing out of meeting, for ’tis thy welfare and 
happiness I chiefly seek. Another matter, 
Dorothy. It is like that Benjamin will again 
marry ; men may not yield to their feelings in 
a country where a woman’s help is needed, and 
if in such a case thou art unhappy, Ruth Tay- 
lor will always give thee a refuge until other 
arrangements can be made for thee. She is 
my dear friend and sister ; I love her well, and 
to her I would thou shouldst go for advice and 
comfort, if thou art in straits. Her husband, 
too, thy father’s brother Jacob, is a godly and 
tender man. I shall not fear if thou hast these 
two for thy friends and advisers.” 

“ Oh, mother ! mother ! I cannot bear thy 
words. I cannot, cannot, have thee leave me.” 

“ Say not so, my child. ’Tis the will of 


262 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


God, and thou must not rebel. Mayst thou 
find peace in the thought that all is well with 
me.” She opened her arms and Dorothy 
buried her face on her shoulder, and sobbed 
out her great grief there. 






CHAPTER XVII 

SORROWING 

Before the first red tinge had touched the 
leaves of the maples in the Pennsylvania 
woods, Dorothy was motherless, and she felt 
desolate, indeed. In her grief she knew not 
where to turn, although the gentle, kindly 
Friends about her did their best to comfort her. 
But they all bade her be reconciled to her loss, 
and this, in the depth of her first wild anguish, 
she felt it impossible to be. 

“Thou art unreasonable in thy sorrow,” 
said Aunt Jane. “Thou art not the only one 
bereft, Dorothy.” 

“I know, I know,” murmured the girl, 
“but that others suffer makes my trouble none 
the less, but rather greater.” 

“ Thy duty is to meet this with greater 
meekness,” returned Aunt Jane. 





264 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Dorothy sighed. The presence of Jane 
Satterthwaite was an added misery to her, for 
Jane and Hannah had taken up their abode 
with Benjamin in the absence of Thomas Sat- 
terthwaite, who had gone on a voyage to the 
Bermudas. Judith, lately married, had posses- 
sion of the Satterthwaite house. 

“ How can I endure it,” thought Dorothy, 
as Jane left her. “It is not enough to share 
my room with Hannah, who shows disapproval 
of me in every glance of her eye, but I must be 
forced to endure the prying curious ways of her 
mother. Ah, that I could hear from England ! 
Why do they not write ? for not a word had 
come from either Jasper or her uncle in these 
long months. She looked dreamily out of the 
window at the falling leaves. In the little 
orchard the apples were ripening, and in the 
garden pumpkins turned their yellow sides to 
the sun. The place had a thrifty, well cared for 
look, but to-day it seemed the dreariest spot in 
the world to the motherless girl. “ Why did we 
ever come?” she sighed. “In Humphrey’s 
Hall we might still have been, my mother alive 
and well, for ’twas the hardships she endured, 
which sapped her strength, and caused her 
to be seized by that ‘ dreadful consumption,’ so 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


265 


said Dr. Thomas Winn. Ah, me, in Hum- 
phrey’s Hall ’tis very fair to-day ! with the sun 
shining on the old dial, and between the rows 
of trees along the avenue. I can fancy even 
now my uncle’s stick sounding along the gravel. 

“Dorothy,” came Hannah’s voice at the 
door, “ thy father wishes speech with thee.” 

The girl arose obediently and went down 
stairs to where Benjamin Taylor sat. “ I have 
somewhat to say to thee, Dorothy,” he re- 
marked, as she entered and stood listlessly 
near the window. “ Thy mother and I have 
had much concern for thee, and I have here a 
few written words of hers, of which she wished 
I should acquaint thee.” He sighed, and Dor- 
othy drew nearer to him. He regarded her 
with moist eyes. “ Thy mother is a great loss,” 
he said, tremulously. 

Dorothy struck her palms helplessly to- 
gether. “ Who knows so well as I ? ” she 
cried. 

“ And I,” he returned. “ I am fain to be as 
a father to thee, Dorothy. Have I ever treated 
thee ill ? I have meant to do my duty by thee.” 

“ Nay, nay, thou hast not been unkind in 
intention. Thou meanest well, although thou 
dost sometimes misunderstand,” said the girl. 


266 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ ’Tis not thy fault, but rather mine. I am not 
like thy family, I well know. Thou canst better 
understand Hannah and Judith than me, and 
like them I shall never be. The James’s were 
ever easily stirred.” 

He nodded, but he murmured, “ I have 
meant to be kind.” 

She did not reply, and he unfolded the 
paper in his hand, reading it aloud. It was 
in substance a repetition of her mother’s wishes 
concerning Silas Price. 

“ Hast thou aught against the young man ? ” 
asked Benjamin. 

“Nay, save that I am not moved to give 
him my best affection. He is most gentle and 
kind, none have shown me more kindness in 
my distress, but my promise is Jasper’s.” 

The man looked at her pityingly. “Ah, 
my daughter, I fear thou art doomed to disap- 
pointment in him. He is but light of love, I 
fear, like the world’s people. He was but a boy 
when this fancy possessed him, and has, no 
doubt, by this time, sought out some other. 
Thou canst not depend upon the uncertain 
words of a lad in his estate of life. Thou hadst 
best put all, save cousinly regard for him out 
of thy mind. He has long since forgotten his 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


2 67 


boyish fancy, else thou wouldst have heard in 
this thy hour of trial.” 

Dorothy leaned against the wall by the fire- 
place, her sorrowful eyes gazing at the floor. 
Could it be true ? A thousand times no ! She 
would keep faith to the end. 

“Thou hast not heard for many months,” 
said Benjamin. “ Is it not so ?” 

“Yes,” faltered the girl, “but he will come. 
I know he will before the end of next spring. 
I was to look for him at the time of the year’s 
blossoming.” 

Benjamin shook his head doubtfully. “ And 
if he does not come ? ” 

“Then,” said Dorothy, almost in a whisper, 
“ I promised my mother to — to look with favor 
upon Silas.” She turned away her head and 
the tears dropped slowly upon her clasped 
hands. 

The man arose and came to her side, laying 
his big hand kindly upon her arm. “Weep 
not, daughter,” he said. “We will bide thy 
term of waiting. Thou art young yet, and shall 
not be forced to marry till thou hast proven 
thyself sure of thy feelings.” 

Dorothy looked up gratefully, and smiled 
through her tears, but she said bravely: “I 


268 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


shall keep my promise to my mother, whatever 
comes.” 

Her step-father gave her an approving nod. 
“ Then so will we leave it. If thy Cousin 
Jasper comes not, Silas shall have leave to win 
thee. Is it so?” 

“Yes.” 

“And how, if Jasper come, thou wouldst marry 
out of meeting? I cannot give consent to that.” 

“ Nay, I promised my mother I would not 
go against the consent of my guardians.” 

“ All is well, then. Thou art a rare dutiful 
child,” and he stooped and kissed her forehead. 

At this moment there was a stir outside, 
and a pleasant, cheery voice was heard to ask, 
“ Where are Benjamin and Dorothy, Hannah ? ” 

“ ’Tis Aunt Ruth,” cried Dorothy, gladly, 
and she ran to meet the little motherly Quak- 
eress, who entered the room. 

“ How dost do, Dorothy ? Ah, there is 
Benjamin. I am glad I happened to come at 
this moment, for I want thy consent, Benjamin, 
to carrying off Dorothy. Jacob bade me say he 
would not take nay from thee.” She kept 
Dorothy’s hand in a close clasp, as she looked 
up at her brother-in-law. “Thou wilt let her 
come, Benjamin ? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


269 


“Yea, Ruth, ’twas her mother’s wish that 
she should bide with thee whenever thou and 
she should so desire, and I think she needs a 
change. How is Jacob ? ” 

“ Well, and as fat as a partridge, I tell him.” 
A little rippling laugh broke from the small 
woman’s lips. “Get thine apparel together, 
Dorothy, for a good long stay. We’ll not 
send thee back till thou hast more roses in 
thy cheeks. Run along, and I will wait for 
thee.” 

Dorothy hurried upstairs more light of 
heart than she had been for weeks. Of all the 
Friends she knew, she cared for none as she 
did for this Aunt Ruth, her mother’s friend and 
the wife of Jacob Taylor, her step-father’s 
brother. She disliked to call Jane Satter- 
thwaite aunt, but “Aunt Ruth ” seemed to come 
very naturally to her lips. This family of Tay- 
lors had remained at their farm near Chester. 
All the sons were married and lived either in 
West Jersey, or further up the country, but 
Jacob and his wife were as hale and hearty as 
ever, and were not old people. They had a 
goodly number of well-cultivated acres, a roomy, 
comfortable house, and were prosperous, kindly 
and hospitable. 


270 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Dorothy looks thin and pale,” said Ruth 
Taylor, as the girl left the room. 

“ She grieves sadly for her mother, and, in 
sooth, the child hath other sorrow. I yearn 
greatly over her, having no child of mine own. 

I shall miss her, Ruth, yet it is best she go with 
thee. Thou art a cheerful person, and she needs 
such at this time.” 

“Although,” laughed Ruth, “at most times 
thou dost not quite approve of my readiness to 
smile. I know that, Benjamin. Well, thou canst 
not change the note of a robin to that of an owl, 
and I was ever of a mirthful nature. I can fancy < 
Jane, with her tendency to dealings with human 
faults, rather a sad presence for poor little 
Dorothy. Jane is a good woman, but over- 
ready to pick flaws, and to manage the affairs 
of others. Thou hadst best look to thy house, 
Benjamin, or thou wilt find every brick has 
changed place ere long.” 

Her brother-in-law smiled. He well knew 
his sister’s proclivities, and was ably armed to 
defend himself against them. 

“ Nothing like a change,” continued Ruth, 
taking up the subject again. “ Thou hadst best 
come down to us, too, Benjamin.” 

“Nay, I have business here. Our city grows 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


271 


apace, Ruth. Many brave brick dwellings are 
going up. The German settlement thrives well, 
the people therein are now manufacturing a very 
goodly sort of linen.” 

“We have lost the Proprietary from these 
parts, yet it is to be hoped he will return to 
reside here permanently.” 

“ Aye, he went off right unwillingly, but so 
was he led for the good of the colony, he 
believed. But here is Dorothy. Art ready, 
daughter? Tell Jacob at my earliest opportu- 
nity I will visit him. How didst come up hither, 
Ruth ? ” 

“In Isaac Sharpless’ boat. He awaits me at 
Dock Creek.” 

In the company of good, cheery Ruth Tay- 
lor, and out in the soft sunshine, Dorothy felt 
more hopeful, although the expression of her 
sad little face went to Aunt Ruth’s heart. But 
she chatted, in her pleasant, soft tones, about all 
sorts of outside matters, that she might distract 
the girl from her sad thoughts. 

“Thou shouldst see our garden, Dorothy,” 
she said, “ and my larder. I have this year pre- 
served more kinds of fruits than ever. And our 
stock, thou hast no idea how it has increased 
since thou wert with us last. I saw thy cousin 


272 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


Joseph, yesterday. He grows a tall, fine lad. 
I told him I should bring thee back with me, and 
he promised to soon appear with his greetings. 
How well he speaks English, with scarce an 
accent. Is it thy teaching? ” 

Dorothy smiled. “An odd lad is Joseph. 
He said he desired to speak English like an 
Englishman, for he could speak the Indian and 
the Swedish language so perfectly he would not 
do less in his English. So now he hardly trips 
at all. Does it not seem strange, Aunt Ruth, 
that he is now my only blood relation this side 
the ocean ? ” 

The plump hand of the little Quakeress was 
laid upon Dorothy’s. “ Do not grieve that it is 
so,” she said. “Thou hast here those who love 
thee well. Jacob and I are ever thy friends, and 
feel as near to thee as to those of our own 
blood.” 

“ Ah, Aunt Ruth, surely thou art as dear to 
me, too, and pleasant it will be indeed to tarry 
with thee.” 

Great, hearty Jacob Taylor welcomed them, 
and Dorothy had scarcely settled herself on the 
porch before she saw a little Indian pony and 
rider coming down the road. “ Ah, ’tis Joseph,” 
she cried. 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


273 


“So ’tis,” agreed Aunt Ruth. “Then, 
Dorothy, I’ll go in and see to thy supper. Bid 
Joseph join us at the meal. I have a good maid, 
but Jacob likes my ways best, and as a good 
housewife, I like to oversee all things.” She 
stopped to welcome Joseph, then entered the 
house. 

“Ah, Joseph, but I am glad to see thee,” 
was Dorothy 1 s greeting. “How are they all at 
Jon Jonson’s ? Why didst thou not bring Tina 
with thee?” 

“ She will come to morrow,” replied he. “I 
thought, Dorotie, that to me you would have 
sometings — I mean some thing — to say. Hast 
thou heard from England ? ” 

“ Nay, and I am sore distressed, Joseph. 
Come, let us walk down to the garden, and I 
will tell thee.” She drew a long sigh. 

“ Thou art so sorry, Dorotie ? ” said Joseph, 
gently. 

“ Yes, I have grievous troubles.” 

“Thy mother — I know.” 

“Yes, and — Joseph, I have never spoken 
of this to thee— but I — I promised Jasper I 
would marry him if he came for me when he 
was of age, and in all these months not a word 

have I heard.” 

is 


274 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ I know, I know ; he is told me about. I 
promise him I am thy brother, and do for you 
and for him as a brother.” 

“ And thou hast. Did he tell thee ? ” she 
added, eagerly. “I am glad for that, because 
my mother and Benjamin Taylor would have 
me believe it was not a true saying of his, and 
that he had purposely left me.” 

“No, no,” Joseph replied, emphatically. “So 
I do not believe. You will wait. You will not 
be distrust of him ? ” 

“ But this long silence ; what means it ? ” 

“ I know not, but ’tis not Jasper’s fault, of 
that I am sure.” 

“ How good to hear thee say so, Joseph. It 
is a great comfort to hear thee say that, but 
dost thou know I have promised to forget — to 
think no more of Jasper, if he does not appear 
in the spring. I gave my word that should he 
fail me, I would look favorably upon the suit of 
Silas Price.” 

Joseph frowned, and shook his head. “ Thou 
wouldst be false to Jasper, and I promised I 
would guard thee for him.” 

“ What can I do ? ” 

“ Believe in him.” 

“ But my word is passed, ’tis now October, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


275 


and in six months he should be here. What am 
I to think ? ” 

“ That he is true to thee.” 

“ But how prove it ? ” 

Joseph knit his dark brows in thought, then 
he spoke. “ I find out. I go find him.” 

“ Oh, Joseph ! ” 

He nodded. “Yes, I go to England. I 
believe no ill of Jasper. I have given him my 
word, he is given me his. I am swear to him 
that I protect you, guard you ; that I send him 
word if aught befall you. So, I go. I am going 
to see your uncle — our uncle — and ask to 
explain. I bring Jasper back if he is alive. 
Yes, I go before it is time for his return. I have 
moneys saved. Besides,” as he saw protest on 
Dorothy’s face, “ besides, Dorotie, I am think- 
ing for some time past that I should see the 
uncle and make formal the give up of Hum- 
phrey’s Hall. I shall be of age, another year, 
and I know my mind. I have now less wish than 
ever to live in England.” He smiled his rare 
smile. 

“Ah, Joseph, I shall miss thee sadly, but I 
am so grateful to thee for going. I shall feel 
very lonely, very lonely, all by myself here, no 
kith nor kin near.” 


276 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Go with me, then, to your uncle.” 

A wave of color came over the girl’s face. 

“ I could not ; ’twould seem like — ” She 
stopped abruptly. 

Joseph nodded. “ I know ; they would say, 
those unkind — that thou didst run for Jasper.” 
The boy’s speech was still full of oddities, and 
he used his thees and thous indiscriminately. 
“ Nay, thou canst not go, Dorotie, I see, but I 
will bring thee word. I will go quickly and 
return quickly as the vessel flies. If all goes 
well, I am return by the time of apple blossoms. 
A swift vessel, sometimes, is but a month ; a 
month to go, a month to return, three months, 
at best four, and I am here with Jasper. I think 
I am needing to hurry off before the first 
freezing.” 

And true enough, before the year had ended 
the boy set sail, leaving Dorothy in the quiet 
country home of Ruth and Jacob Taylor. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

DAYS OF WAITING 

The first of the year saw Dorothy still with 
Aunt Ruth, and there she remained through 
the ensuing winter. 

“Thou art yet too large-eyed and pale,” 
said Jacob Taylor. “We cannot return thee 
to Benjamin ; he has concern enough in looking 
after Jane. Dost want to leave us, Dorothy ? ” 

“ Nay, I am well content to tarry here ; ’tis 
more serene and comforting. I think I find 
greater peace under thy roof than elsewhere.” 

“I saw a friend of thine in the city to-day,” 
continued Jacob. “ He bade me bring thee 
his greeting, and to say that he would visit 
thee anon.” 

“ And who was he ? ” 

“ Silas Price.” 

“Oh ! ” The color came to the girl’s cheeks. 

277 



2 7 8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ He is a good youth,” Jacob went on, 
“ but not sightly with his cropped ears and 
pallid face. Still, Dorothy, thou shouldst not 
look upon the outer man.” 

The girl was silent. She was troubled at 
the prospect of Silas Price’s visit, and washed 
that he would leave her in peace. Since her 
talk with Joseph the thought of the young 
Quaker had become more and more distasteful. 
A new hope was born in her that day of 
Joseph’s decision to go to England, and she 
had found comfort in it. 

She went out and stood on the porch look- 
ing off over the fields. Yonder was the village 
of Chester, wdiere she and her mother had first 
met after their long separation ; there she had 
parted from Jasper. A mist came before her 
eyes, and one or two hot tears fell, but she 
brushed them away as Aunt Ruth’s gentle 
voice said : “ Do not w r eep, Dorothy, Thou hast 
looked brighter of late. Is this some new grief?” 

“Nay, Aunt Ruth, but I am sore troubled 
over many things.” 

“Well, well, my child, sit thee down here. 
The day is mild and the sun bright ; now tell 
me all about it.” And Dorothy poured forth 
her full heart, concluding with : 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


279 


“ And oh ! Aunt Ruth, I know Silas to be a 
worthy man, but I would rather never wed than 
marry him.” 

Aunt Ruth smiled. “ My dear, maids are 
not allowed to go unwed in a new colony ; men 
need wives too greatly, and thou wouldst not 
remain long a spinster, I am inclined to think, 
even if thou wert not to marry Silas Price. 
But why art thou averse to him ? ” 

A little smile flickered around Dorothy’s 
mouth as she replied : “ I could not sit oppo- 
site those cropped ears three times a day.” 

Aunt Ruth hid a smile as she answered 
demurely. “That is not a friendly speech, 
Dorothy. Thou knowest better than to regard 
outward appearance above spiritual qualities.” 
Then she looked up with a twinkle in her eye, 
shaking her head, and saying ; “Yet, I cannot 
blame thee, Dorothy. I couldn’t do it either ; 
if my Jacob had been so ill-favored I fear I 
should never have come to Pennsylvania.” 

This was a comforting assurance, and Dor- 
othy’s face took on a pleased expression at this 
outspoken sympathy. She looked very frail 
and young to be anyone’s wife as she sat there 
on the step of the porch in the soft spring sun 
shine, her slim little figure, with its delicate 


28 o 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


girlish angles, a contrast to Ruth Taylor’s 
mature roundness. A robin was whistling in 
the budding tree near them ; the soft odor of 
newly-turned earth and of early blossomings 
filled the air. Ruth looked around with a sat- 
isfied smile. Dorothy gazed off into the purple 
mists, shot through with golden lights, which 
hung over the river and the hills beyond. 

“ It is a fair land,” she said, “but dost thou 
never regret England, Aunt Ruth ? ” 

“ Nay, not while Jacob and my boys are 
here, and we all prosper.” 

“ But,” there was a little catch in Doro- 
thy’s voice, “ if thou hadst not married him ; if 
thou hadst been obliged to wed some other, 
would the world have ever seemed fair ? ” 

Aunt Ruth leaned forward, and putting a 
finger under the soft chin of the girl she turned 
her face upward, and looked down into it with 
tender eyes. “ Do no man the wrong to marry 
him if thou hast it not of the spirit that it is 
well for thy soul, for thy truest good. Do not 
thyself the wrong to marry a man no matter 
how thou mayst incline toward him, if thou art 
convinced that thy soul’s health will suffer 
therefrom.” 

“ How can one tell? ” whispered the girl, a 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


281 


little troubled look in her eyes. “ Dost thou 
think Jasper would do me an evil ?” 

'‘Nay, my child, nay. I meant not that.” 

“Jasper is good and true and generous. 
Oh, Aunt Ruth, he is — he is — but he is not a 
Friend.” 

“ Dear heart, thine is a trouble which only 
patience can cure. Art thou thyself a true 
Friend ? ” 

Dorothy looked down. “ I fear I have 
never been so utterly inclined as my mother. 
What is right for me to do ? ” 

“Seek guidance from above and possess 
thy soul in patience. Be true to thyself and 
the Lord shall deliver thee.” 

Dorothy’s head dropped against Ruth’s knee, 
and she sat very quietly for a long time gazing 
thoughtfully at the waking world before her. 

At last she said : “ Thou has strengthened 
me, Aunt Ruth. No one, not even my mother, 
has so understood me. No one — but — Jasper. 
I am not afraid now.” 

“ And there comes Silas this moment. 
Thou hast, perhaps, need of courage.” 

True enough the young man was approach- 
ing. Dorothy sat perfectly still till he came up. 
Aunt Ruth went down to meet him. 


282 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Thou art welcome, Silas Price,” she said; 
“ sit down here where ’tis warm and sunny. 
Dorothy will bear thee company.” And she 
went inside leaving the two together. 

Silas placed himself in the chair just 
vacated by Ruth, after Dorothy had said 
quietly, “Be seated, Silas.” There was silence 
between them for some minutes. Dorothy did 
not change her position. Silas sat looking at 
her thinking how pure and white was the nape 
of her neck, where the little rings of hair curled 
up, and how softly the kerchief folded around 
her throat. He drew himself up stiffly, grasp- 
ing the arms of the chair. It was not meet that 
a Friend should regard a girl with respect to 
her looks, but he thought her very fair, and 
justified himself by thinking that it was the 
reflex of her spirit made her seem so. His 
fingers moved nervously on the arms of the 
chair, and at last he said in his high nasal 
drawl : 

“ Dorothy, it is borne in upon me that I 
should take thee in marriage. Hast thou a 
like convincement concerning me ? ” 

Dorothy was gravely silent before she 
answered. “Nay, Silas, I do not see clearly 
the accomplishment of it.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


283 


He ran his fingers through his lank hair in 
agitation ; he who had imperturbably faced an 
angry mob. 

“I see that thou art a worthy man, Silas,” 
continued Dorothy, gently ; “I recognize thy 
good intent, thy many virtues, but has not 

my ,” she hesitated, “hast thou not heard 

that I am promised to my cousin, Jasper 
Preston ? ” 

“Yes ; but thou wouldst not marry out of 
meeting. I know thou wouldst not, and thy 
cousin is like, by this time, to be pledged to 
some other. ’Twas but a childish fancy ; so 
said thy father.” 

“ Nay, but thou wouldst not have me break 
my promise, while the matter is uncertain. 
’Twould be a bad Friend who did that. And I 
am bound to wait the limit of the time I 
promised.” 

“ And then ? 99 

The girl drew a sharp, short breath. “And 
then. I know not. Who can tell what the 
inner voice shall bid me do ? It has not yet 
come upon me what I shall do, Silas ; but this 
I am ready to say, that if I have it from the 
spirit to take thee for my husband I will tell 
thee truthfully, after my season of waiting is 


284 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


past, if so be thou art then of the same mind. 
Yet, methinks, to be honest with thee, I now 
feel no desire towards such an accomplishment, 
for my whole heart yearns for the return of my 
cousin.” 

“Thou art honest, Dorothy, and I thank 
thee,” returned Silas, with a little gasp ; “ but — 
yea, I, too, can be patient and bide my time. 
I do not deem the matter decided. No ; not in 
months, nor in years, but so long as thou art 
unwed. And meantime, in all that Tcan, will I 
serve thee.” 

Dorothy gave a slight shudder, yet she 
wished she could be more responsive. “ Thou 
art very kind,” was all she could say. 

Silas arose, twirling his hat in his hands. 
“I thank thee, Dorothy, for thy kindness of 
speech, for thy honesty. I have a mighty 
yearning toward thee ; a great and deep affec- 
tion. I shall not give thee up easily, and if so 
be it is made clear to thee to take me at some 
future day, I will strive to be a tender and 
devoted husband to thee.” 

Dorothy felt the blood flame in her cheeks. 
His absolute persistence gave her a helpless 
feeling, but she only repeated, “ Thou art very 
kind, Silas.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


285 


He extended his hand. “Farewell,” he 
said. “ I will not lose sight of thee for a day. I 
shall have thee in mind constantly, and even to 
mine own misery will I serve thee.” 

There was much real feeling in his tone 
that Dorothy felt ashamed not to seem willing 
to do more than say, “ Farewell, Silas ! ” 
But she added, as an afterthought, “Wilt thou 
not remain to supper? Jacob Taylor will be 
pleased to have thee, and from my aunt thou 
hast already had an invitation.” 

“Nay,” returned the young man in some 
confusion, “I cannot remain. I shall wait till 
thou dost bid me of thine own accord.” 

Although many times during the month did 
Silas journey down to the farm at Chester to 
make a sedate visit, and it came to be a regular 
thing to see him twice a week, he never once 
referred to the conversation he had had there 
with Dorothy on that first April morning. 
She, however, talked little to him, and rarely 
listened to what he said , to her uncle, sitting 
with her eyes cast down, and her thoughts far, 
far away, excepting when the subject of the 
young marfs persecutions came up, — his expe- 
riences in those places where Quakers were 
treated as desperate characters, and then she 


286 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


listened half fascinated by his accounts of 
lashings and revilings, of hair-breadth escapes 
and the overcoming of wrath with soft answers. 

The girl, meanwhile, grew less reserved 
and was more normal in her attitude toward 
life. Time, the great healer, softened her grief 
for her mother’s loss, and as each day brought 
nearer Joseph’s return, hope grew stronger. 
There had been no urging her to return to 
Philadelphia, for somehow Benjamin Taylor 
seemed to realize that it was best for her to 
remain under Aunt Ruth’s wing. “Art thou 
content here?” he asked her more than once. 

“ I am content. Aunt Ruth is wondrous 
good to me,” she would reply. “ I find greater 
peace here than in any other spot.” 

“ Then remain,” was his invariable response. 
“ Thou art in good hands.” 

“ I feel more at home in Chester,” she told 
Aunt Ruth. “ Thou art nearer to me than any 
other now.” 

“And thou art like our own dear child,” 
said the sweet Quakeress. “ So long as it 
shall please thee, Dorothy, Jacob and I will be 
more than glad to keep thee.” 

All her happiest memories of this new 
country clustered around the Chester neigh- 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


287 


borhood ; all her pleasantest friendships had 
been made there, and now, as before, she often 
saw her old friend, Tina, and walked with her 
in the same woods, or sat with her in the chim- 
ney corner. Both girls missed Joseph, but it was 
Dorothy who most frequently remarked the fact. 

“The dear Joseph, ” she would say. “I 
long to see him again. Is it not strange, Tina, 
how much difference the absence of one person 
can make ? Every week brings more persons 
to the colony, and yet they count as nothing 
since a friend is missing. Oh, I shall be glad 
to see Joseph whether he return alone or not.” 

Joseph had gone in December, and allowing 
for long voyages, with adverse winds, it was 
now time to hear from, if not to see, him. 

It was one evening in the latter part of 
April that the first news did come. Jacob Taylor 
brought a letter and gave it into her hands as 
she sat with Aunt Ruth in the big living-room. 

“A letter from my uncle at last,” she cried. 
“ Ah, now for news. I wonder why he has 
been so long writing, and if he has seen 
Joseph.” A red spot burned in each cheek as 
she broke the seal. 

Aunt Ruth at her work presently heard a 
heart-breaking cry. Dorothy stood holding 


288 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


out her two trembling- hands, every vestige of 
color gone from her face. “ Aunt Ruth ! Aunt 
Ruth ! ” she cried, “ I shall never see him more. 
He is lost ! ” 

'‘Who? What?” cried the good woman. 
“ There, dear one, look not so crazed ; calm 
thyself. Jacob, get me the red lavender. There, 
dear, drink some of this. Now tell us, has 
aught happened to Joseph ? ” 

“Nay, to Jasper,” Dorothy said, in a 
strained voice. “He started forth to set sail 
for America six months ago ; no word has been 
heard of him since. It is not even known 
whether he sailed. No trace of him can be 
found. Ah, woe is me ! I am sorely bereft ! 
Would I were dead ! would I were dead ! ” 

“ Nay, nay, my child, be not so desperate. 
Has thou read the entire letter? ” 

“Yes. Joseph has arrived safely. My 
uncle thought Jasper was here. He never 
dreamed otherwise. Joseph’s coming was his 
first news of anything wrong. Ah, my poor 
Jasper ! My dear, noble lad ! Ah, Aunt Ruth, 
whither shall I go for comfort? ” 

“There, dear soul, there.” The good 
woman made a sign to Jacob to leave them, 
and he went out. “ He may yet be heard 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


289 


from ; thou hast no proof of his loss. Keep a 
brave heart till thou hearest more. Do not 
despair yet. If it is known he did not set sail he 
may yet be heard from. He may have met with 
some slight accident, and may be on the way.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Ruth, thou dost comfort me ; I 
will not give up. There is other news in the 
letter. Is it not strange ? Joseph is not the 
heir after all, for my uncle has a little son of 
his own, a baby boy named for my father, 
Marmaduke. So, after all, poor Jasper is cut 
off from all the estates, if he be living. Ah, if 
I could but think so. Joseph will remain, says 
my uncle, till all means of search have failed. 
My uncle is well pleased with Joseph, and fain 
would keep him alway ; but he tells me he will 
return to us ere long.” 

“ And when was the letter written ? ” inquired 
Aunt Ruth. 

Dorothy turned to it. “ The last of Feb- 
ruary — the 25th.” 

“ I will ask Jacob how it arrived — by whose 
hand.” 

Being consulted, the good man told them 
the letter was given him that day by his brother. 
It had come on a vessel which had just landed 
at Philadelphia. 


290 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ What dost thou think, Jacob? ’ asked his 
wife as she told the news of Jasper’s disap- 
pearance. 

Great, hearty Jacob looked grave, and shook 
his head doubtfully. Dorothy’s eyes were 
fastened upon him, anxious to discover if he 
felt the same hope that his wife did. 

“It does not look hopeful,” he admitted. 

And Dorothy fell to crying pitifully. “ Now, 
Jacob,” protested his wife, “thou art very dis- 
couraging. Why should it be hopeless ? ” 

“ I said not hopeless. I but said ’twas not 
hopeful. Be not cast down, my lass. It is true 
there are many strange tales of those who have 
been lost and are found. I will pursue my 
inquiries at this side the water, and mayhap a 
clue may be discovered.” 

“Her cousin as well as her lover. A double 
grief, Jacob,” whispered Aunt Ruth. “Try to 
lend her comfort if thou canst.” 

At this moment there was heard a rapping 
at the front door. “Go thou, Jacob,” urged 
Aunt Ruth, “ and if it be friends wait till Dor- 
othy and I can escape before thou bringest 
them in. We would not have strangers view 
a maid’s sorrow for one she loves.” 



CHAPTER XIX 

SURPRISES 

Dorothy’s foot was upon the sill of the door 
which led into the kitchen, whither she and 
Aunt Ruth were escaping, when Jacob Taylor’s 
voice called with a hearty ring: “Dorothy, 
Dorothy, here, lass ! ” Then followed a second 
call in Silas Price’s squeaking tones, and next 
the sound of a voice at which Dorothy started 
and clasped her hands ; then, with a smoth- 
ered cry, she turned back. But she halted 
suddenly at sight of those she beheld, standing 
there with her hands clasped over her breast 
and her eyes, with a startled, dazed look in 
them, wandering from one to the other. 

Stout, smiling Jacob Taylor on one side ; 
tall, lank Silas, with a look half deprecating, 
half joyful, nervously moving his hands ; and 
between the two an unfamiliar figure in the 



292 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


dress of an English sailor, although much 
worn, faded, torn apparel it was. A sunburnt 
face was turned eagerly toward Dorothy, who, 
as the deep voice repeated “ Dorothy, Dor- 
othy,” sa w in the fearless blue eyes an old look 
of tenderness, and with one scream of delight 
she darted forward and was clasped in the 
arms of Jasper ! And then for pure joy she 
sobbed on his shoulder, while he murmured 
“ Poor little dove ! my little lass ! ” Then with 
a flash of his old spirit, ‘‘Are you so grieved to 
see me, Dolly ?” With that she lifted her 
head and smiled, but remembering that she was 
in her lover’s arms before others, she blushed 
and looked down, although she still held fast 
to his hand. “Oh, Jasper,” she said, “I 
thought thou wert lost to me forever. How — 
why — where hast thou been?” 

“Aye, where hast thou been?” echoed 
Aunt Ruth. 

“No wonder you ask,” returned Jasper, 
looking down at his weather-worn dress. I am 
not in the costume of an English gentleman 
calling upon his sweetheart, but I trust you will 
all impute my seeming lack of respect in thus 
appearing to the ardor which would brook no 
tarrying.” And he gazed searchingly, but 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


293 


fondly, down into Dorothy’s face, then looked 
around at the others hesitatingly. 

“Thou needst not fear to speak before 
these, my best friends,” said Dorothy, softly. 

“ Nay, lad, thou needst not fear. Speak 
up, we are all friends,” Jacob Taylor assured 
him. “ Here, sit thee down and let us hear thy 
tale.” 

Still holding Dorothy’s hand, Jasper seated 
himself on the settle by the fire, with his sweet- 
heart by his side, Aunt Ruth and Jacob in their 
contented maturity opposite, and between them, 
in a large chair, his small, squinting eyes fixed 
on Dorothy, sat Silas. 

“You have perhaps heard that my uncle 
has a son of his own,” began Jasper. 

“We have heard,” Dorothy replied, gently. 

“ It hit me hard, I must confess, for with 
Joseph all along emphatically declaring he 
wanted not anything save his father’s share of 
the property, I had not given up a belief in my 
heirship, and so, thinks I to myself, I will better 
my estate in the two years between now and 
my majority, so that I may have more to offer 
my Dolly. Therefore I thought out many 
schemes, and often went down to the wharves 
and looked at the big merchantmen, wondering 


294 THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

in what cargo I could best make a fortune. 
You know, Dolly, how the vessels come and 
go from Bristol port. We have watched them 
there many a time.” 

‘‘Aye, I well remember,” she replied. 

“Well, I so haunted the place and did so 
mingle with the sailors that on one dark night, 
in company with a group of others, I was 
seized by the press gang and hurried off. 
’Twas the very night that I had told my mother 
that I had about decided to return to America 
and take my chances here, for that it seemed 
the best I could do. And I did greatly yearn 
for you, Dolly,” he bent low and whispered. 
“Of my life thereafter no need now to relate. 
You have all heard the like ; but I found myself 
no longer a curled darling, and I awoke, I hope 
and think, to a stronger manhood. I was a bit 
spoiled,” he smiled in saying. 

“I gave not my true name, for I was hot at 
being in such condition, and the life was one 
which, now as I think of it, makes my gorge 
rise. I resolved to escape so soon as I could, 
knowing that ’twas an unjust and wicked prac- 
tice which had me to endure such a life. 
Therefore, one night, I took my chances as we 
sighted a ship, which I took to be, from the cut 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


295 


of her jib, bound for the colonies. I slipped 
overboard, a chance of life or death though it 
was.” 

“ Oh !” there came a soft cry from Dorothy. 
Jasper clasped her hand closer and went on. 
“Fortunately, I could swim like a duck, and 
there happened to be no sharks about. I kept 
afloat till I was seen by the vessel of which I 
spoke, which, by good luck, was Captain 
Drew’s Factor , from Bristol. I knew the cap- 
tain well, and when I told him my story, after I 
was in a plight to do so, he was in a high dudg- 
eon at my having been thus impressed ; I, who 
was no sailor, but a plain citizen and civilian, 
said he, ‘ I’ll land you safe, my master, and I’d 
advise you to stay where you’re landed for a 
while. I’m going straight to the Pennsylvania 
colony.’ ” 

“To Pennsylvania,” cried I, “no better 
news could you give me, Captain ! I tried to 
get word to you, Dolly, and to my mother, but 
there was no chance.” 

“ Thou hast had a close escape,” said Jacob 
Taylor. 

“ I have. I realized what were my risks 
when I found myself overboard,” returned Jas- 
per, soberly. 


296 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ But how didst thou come across Silas ?” 
asked Aunt Ruth. 

“ Ah, that is the rest of the story. So was I 
landed at Philadelphia, where I supposed my 
Dolly to be, I inquired till I found the house of 
Benjamin Taylor, and there I met this good 
friend, who, learning who I was, offered to 
guide me to you, Dolly. Of all his good offices 
I will not even tell you, lest I put him to blush, 
but I shall not forget them, and do thank him 
with all my heart.” 

“Didst thou see Benjamin ? ” asked Jacob. 

“Yes, he seemed not overjoyed to see me, 
but told me of the changes which had taken 
place. Ah, my poor little lass ! ” 

“Jacob, wilt thou give me a hand with the 
fire in the kitchen ? I can offer thee a good 
brewing of home-made ale, Silas, if thou dost 
care to draw it,” said Aunt Ruth, going toward 
the kitchen. 

Jasper jumped to his feet. “Allow me to 
help thee, Mistress.” 

She gently put him aside. “ Nay. Stay 
thou here, Jasper Preston ; when I want thee 
I will tell thee.” 

Jasper stooped and kissed her hand. “I 
thank you,” he murmured, for he understood 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


297 


that Aunt Ruth desired to leave the cousins 
alone. 

“My Dolly! My Dolly!” said the lad, as 
the door closed after the others. “ Im but a 
poor weather-beaten sailor lad. I have no 
lands nor ancient estates to offer you. But 
Dolly, dear, I have never for one moment for- 
gotten you, and to see you once more has been 
my dearest longing.” 

“And they would have had me believe thee 
false,” she murmured. 

“Is it so? But thou art still true, my 
heart? ” 

“Ah, Jasper, if thou didst but know how 
much dearer than ever thou art, for ’twas 
scarce an hour ago I mourned thee as dead. 
Oh, ’tis wonderful, wonderful ! Oh, my beloved, 
thou art a hundredfold dearer to me who am 
no longer a little child. What care I for thy 
rugged looks, thy lack of riches, thy poor rai- 
ment ? I have thee, thy own true self again. 
Oh, Jasper, it has been a bitter, bitter season. 
I have drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs, 
for I felt utterly bereft with two I loved the best 
taken from me : my mother and thee.” 

The girl was carried out of her usual reserve 
by the strength of her emotions. 


298 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“I will never leave you again,” declared 
Jasper. “When will you marry me, dear?” 

“Nay, speak not of that now. Dost know 
that Joseph has gone to England, or indeed, 
is like to be on his way home now?” 

“Yes, I heard that, also, from your friend 
Silas ; for all his uncouth and unhandsome 
exterior, how good a man is he. Why, Dolly, 
dost know he offered to buy me fine clothes 
in which to appear before you ? He would 
have had me take his purse to use for my 
needs. A brother could not have done more.” 

The tears came to Dorothy’s eyes. 

“ Why, my heart, are these tears ?” 

“ Ah, Jasper, ’tis an untoward fate which 
brings joy to one while it gives sorrow to others.” 

“ Ah-h ! ” Jasper gave expression to the 
exclamation ; then stood looking thoughtfully 
into space. But he changed the subject by 
saying, “ Dost know I am of age next week, 
Dolly? and that I mean to buy me a tract of 
land right here with my little patrimony, and 
here we will live and die. Art satisfied to be a 
poor man’s wife ? ” 

“Ah, Jasper, have I not served an appren- 
ticeship at simple ways here in the colony ? Is 
such a prospect like to daunt me ? But ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


299 


“ Nay, no buts. Let me look well at you, 
dear. You are pale and thin, your baby round- 
ness hast gone from you, but your eyes, your 
mouth are the same. Ah, Dolly, how many a 
time have I seen them in my dreams.” 

“ Here comes Aunt Ruth,” said Dorothy 
with a sweet blush, withdrawing herself from 
the long, loving gaze. 

Aunt Ruth came in bearing a plate of cake ; 
Silas followed with a tankard of ale. “Jacob is 
brewing us a fine punch,” the good woman 
announced. “We must give thee a warm wel- 
come, Jasper.” In those days the smallest 
occasion demanded the setting forth of punch 
and other beverages. 

As Silas placed the tankard on the table, 
Dorothy went up to him and held out both 
hands. “Silas,” she said, “thou art a true 
friend. I shall ever hold thee in loving remem- 
brance for what thou hast done. May thou find 
as great joy as thou hast given me this night.” 

“ I thank thee, Dorothy,” he replied ; “ I 
rejoice with thee in thy new-found happiness.” 

Here Jasper came up, and held out his 
hand. The two young men looked into each 
other’s face searchingly. Behind the peering, 
winking eyes of Silas Price, Jasper discovered 


3 °° 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


the nobility of nature which could renounce 
happiness and be glad for the sake of a great 
loss which gave all and received nothing. 
Jasper wrung Silas’ hand silently. “ God bless 
you,” he said as he turned away. 

“Thou wilt tarry here, Silas, and thou 
Jasper, wilt thou not? At least, one night,” 
said Aunt Ruth. 

“Yes, if you can, without inconvenience, 
entertain us for one night. To-morrow, I think, 
I must go to my good friends, the Jonsons,” 
replied Jasper. 

“Tell me, Dolly, is Tina as pretty as 
ever? ” he asked the next day. 

“ Oh, yes, prettier, if anything, and the 
same dear innocent. Have we not good 
friends ? Ah, Jasper, when Joseph comes back 

’twill be quite like the old days, all except ” 

Her voice faltered, and she did not go on. 

“ Yes, I know, dear, I know. I understand,” 
whispered he. “ Would I could comfort you.” 

“ Ah ! thou dost, more than any one could, 
but ” 

“But what, Dolly? That but has come 
up two or three times before. Are you going 
to jilt me after all ? Have you found out I am 
too rough and tumble? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


301 


Dolly looked grave. “ Tis not thy looks, 
nor yet thyself, Jasper ; but dost thou know 
I may not marry out of meeting ? ’ Tis a seri- 
ous offence.” 

“ By the Lord Harry, I never thought of 
that! Well, Dolly, I’m ready to be a Quaker 
for your sake, if it will make you happy, or will 
make up for anything you have suffered. How 
will I go about it ? I’ll begin my thees and 
thous at once.” 

“Oh, Jasper!” Dorothy’s face cleared. 
“Wilt thou really become a Friend ? ” 

“ Yes, if you — I mean if thou wouldst have 
me,” he laughed. “Yet I used to believe you 
— thou wast but half Quaker thyself.” 

Dorothy looked sober. “ I fear I still do 
yearn for our childhood’s church, but I promised 
my mother I would not marry without the con- 
sent of my guardians, and she was sore grieved 
at the thought of my marrying out of meeting.” 

‘‘Then, Dolly, thou shalt not. Consider 
me a Quaker from this out. I’ll go and have 
the matter adjusted as soon as possible. I 
will seek out Benjamin Taylor ere sundown to- 
morrow.” 

Which he did, and a day later was in the 
sedate council of Friends, who met his eager 


3° 2 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


offer to join their society with the grave ques- 
tion : “ Friend, dost thou desire to do this from 
convincement or for love of Dorothy James? ” 

The blood flamed into the lad’s face and 
was visible even through his sun-burn, but he 
answered boldly, “ Because of my love for 
Dorothy James.” 

“Then we cannot receive thee.” 

“Yet he is an honest, truthful lad, and 
methinks seems tenderly disposed,” remarked 
one old Friend. 

“ So far he seems very tender of conscience, 
but we would have him subscribe to all our 
beliefs,” was the answer. “ Go. Jasper Preston ! 
We will let Dorothy James deal with thee, and 
if so be thou art ready to receive convincement 
we will receive thee in a year’s time.” Such 
was the fiat that went forth. 

“A year’s time!” It seemed an age to 
the ardent youth, and he went back to Dorothy 
quite crestfallen. “ A year is not long to wait,” 
she tried to comfort him by saying cheerfully. 

“ Ah, if thou hadst led the dreary life which 
has been mine this year past ’twould seem an 
eternity,” he returned, gloomily. “And what 
if I do not find convincement, as you say ? 
There go my thees and thous already.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


303 


“ I cannot marry thee without the consent 
of my guardians. I promised my mother that.” 

“ Then thou wilt give me up ? ” 

“ Nay ! Nay ! I will never marry rather 
than that. And we can see each other as often 
as we will till thou dost join the Friends, for ’tis 
likely thou wilt not live among them long with- 
out so doing.” 

“ But you will not marry out of meeting.” 

“ I said not that. My mother did not require 
that of me. She but wished me to promise 
that I would not marry without proper consent.” 

“Then,” said Jasper with a forlorn little 
smile, “ I’ve either to subscribe to certain doubt- 
ful beliefs, or else give up my sweetheart, for 
thy step-father is not like to consent any more 
than any other Friend. You’d better begin 
now and deal with me, Dolly.” 

“Thou art too light in thy speech and be- 
havior,” returned Dorothy, but with a smile. 

“ Then shall I take Silas Price as my model, 
or Benjamin Taylor ? ” 

“Nay, Jasper! I fear I like thee too well 
as thou art to wish thee to change one iota.” 

He caught her hands and kissed them. 
“ Then I do not despair, for love will find a 
way. Shall you not like to see me again 


3°4 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


dressed as becomes the gallant of so fair a 
maid?” She shook her head. “I care not 
for that. If thou art to become a planter thou 
wilt be going about in leathern breeches and 
worsted jerkens as any other, and thy fine 
feathers would be of little service.” 

‘'Save when I may serve governor and 
council, or on our wedding day, Dolly.” 

She blushed, but looked up with sweet 
confidence. “ Thou art very sure of that.” 

“ Aye, I am bound to be sure ! Cease not to 
deal with me, Dolly, that I may very speedily com 
vince those wise Friends that I am in earnest.” 

She smiled and shook her head. “ I fear I 
am a poor teacher, and that thy reasons are of 
no account to serve thy purpose. If thou dost 
become a Friend, we shall twice have to pass 
meeting, and there will be much drinking of 
punch and receiving of Friends. We shall have 
to walk to meeting with many Friends in attend 
ance, I wearing a black silk hood, and thou — 
How wilt thou be dressed, Jasper? Ah, me! 
I shall not like all such conditions.” 

“ You would rather be married quietly in 
our own little church at home. So would I, 
Dolly. Shall we run off and leave all the trouble 
here ? Leave and never come back ? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 305 

Dorothy drew back quite shocked. “Nay, 
Jasper, say not such things to me.” 

“ I meant it not ; but in jest I spoke. No, 
we shall not live as I used to dream we should, 
in old Gray Towers. I have, however, learned 
by a hard experience to value more simple 
comfort, if freedom be with it, and our little 
Quaker home will not hold a man who frets for 
the stately mansions of his forefathers. I shall 
be well content here ; and, Dolly, I have been 
thinking how fine it would be if Joseph and I 
could be neighbors. Should you rather live in 
Philadelphia ? ” 

“Nay, although ’tis a city of fair promise. 
I love better the quiet country homes here- 
abouts, for I have been most happy here/’ 

“ But if I ever get rich, we can have two 
houses, perhaps, one there and one here.” 

Dorothy laughed. “That is a long way 
ahead, I am thinking.” 

Jasper sighed. “Ah, yes. And what most 
concerns me at present is that I shall be twenty- 
one next week ; that I am not, yet needs be, a 
Quaker ; that thou art, yet should not be, one ; 
and that I cannot wait a year for thee. No, no 
— do not shake your head — I cannot.” 

20 



CHAPTER XX 

HOW IT WAS SETTLED 

A few days later Jasper appeared in a new 
outfit ; leathern breeches and woolen doublet, 
displaying his straight, manly figure to advan- 
tage. 

Dorothy turned him around with little 
laughs of pleasure. “ Where didst thou get 
them ? ” she asked. 

“ I earned them. I have been working for 
Jon Jonson. Am I not becomingly possessed 
of a spirit of humility? I, who at one time 
scorned Joseph for doing the same ? What time 
I was not working I went out hunting, and did 
so well with my pelts that you see the result. 
There are two roses in thy cheeks to-day for 
the first time. Thou art growing like thyself 
again, my little snow-maiden. The apple trees 
are all a-bloom. Dost want to come with me 

306 



THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


307 


for a walk ? The day is most fair. I hear a 
famous big vessel is on the way up the river. 
Perchance Joseph may be aboard. I feel an 
impression that he is. Get thy hood and cloak, 
Dolly, and we will go to the landing. How 
well I remember the day I came ashore and saw 
you with Joseph. It seems long ago,” he said, 
musingly, as they stood on the little wharf, 
watching the vessel approach. “ Here she 
comes. See, there are many aboard, as 
always.” 

“ But few land here now ; they all proceed 
to Philadelphia,” replied Dorothy. “Oh, Jas- 
per ! I verily believe I do see Joseph ! Is it 
not he ? See, he waves his hat. It is ! It is ! 
Let him see thee, for he knows not of thy 
safety. Mount this pile of wood, so. He sees 
thee. Look, he is rushing to be the first 
ashore.” 

True enough, Joseph was making ready to 
give a mighty spring and gain the landing ; but 
he suddenly paused and waited. 

“Why does he that?” said Dorothy, impa- 
tiently. “ Oh, Jasper, see ! see ! who is with 
him? Oh, my uncle ! dear, dear uncle ! ” She 
ran forward as if she would fly on the deck of 
the ship, and stood poised on the very edge of 


3°8 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


the wharf, with arms extended, and when the 
first passengers were landed the familiar sound 
of Humphrey James’ stick sounded on the 
logs. 

“ Is it my little lass ? ” murmured the 
Squire, as the girl ran to meet him. “ My little 
lass, grown such a woman ! ” And he fondled 
her with trembling hands, patting her shoulder, 
and holding her off to look her over. 

A great shout Joseph gave as he beheld his 
old comrade, and as soon as Dorothy could 
find words she said : “ Oh, uncle, dost thou 
know Jasper is safe here ? ” 

“ Jasper ! Where ? Then ’tis a lucky jour- 
ney I have taken. Where is he, lass ? ” 

“ Here,” cried Jasper ; “here, sir, I am.” 

Then such a talking and explaining as went 
on while they proceeded toward the village, the 
Squire leaning on Jasper’s arm and plying him 
with questions. 

“Well, my master,” he said, “I’m not sure 
but that your experience has done you good. 
You started a little too confidently. He was a 
trifle masterful, eh, Dolly?” But Dorothy 
would not say a word that put Jasper to disad- 
vantage. ‘ ‘ And you have gotten the better of 
me in the race,” went on the Squire. “ Here 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


309 


I came expecting to find a very Niobe — a hap- 
less wench bereft of her lover — and I find her 
all smiles with her gallant alongside. A sad 
trick to play my old bones, bringing them this 
distance for naught.” 

“Nay, uncle, not for naught,” interposed 
Dorothy. “ ’Tis surely the greatest joy to see 
thee.” 

“ An’ thou lovest the old man still, despite 
his having gotten him an heir, who will rob you 
and your lad here of what w r ould else have 
been a very fair inheritance ? You are not 
wroth at him for perking up at his age, and 
like a young whipster flaunting himself with a 
wife and a son ? ” 

“ Nay, uncle, I am only happy that thou art 
happy.” 

“ Ah, there spoke the little Quaker. So, ’tis 
a good belief if it keep thee so true to thy old 
affections. And, Dolly, you should see that 
youngster, Marmaduke, a year old, and a fine, 
big boy, is he not, Joseph ? Where are you, 
lad? Well, well ; here am I in a strange land 
yet with nephews, niece and cousin by my side. 
Dost know, Dolly, I came with the intent of 
taking you back with me ? I was not content 
to leave Marmaduke’s lass here in the hands 


3io 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


of strangers. Frances sends you greeting and 
an earnest message to come and be her 
daughter. Poor Frances ! she mourns deeply 
for Jasper, and chides herself that ’tis her fault 
that he is lost, she says ; and nothing will do, 
but I must go and fetch you who were to be 
her daughter, and still shall be, declares she.” 

“ Ah, but, sir, we’ll talk that over later on,” 
said Jasper. “ I have plans.” 

“ He has plans ! the jackanapes ; the young 
marmot, when I am still his guardian.” 

“ Aye, sir, but for another day.” 

The Squire laughed jovially. “Well rid 
of! well rid!” he cried. “Mayhap, you’ll 
allow me a plan, too.” 

“A dozen, sir. I shall be ready to hear all 
or any,” returned Jasper. 

“ Come, Dolly, give me your arm,” said the 
Squire. “There, now, I have ye both, one on 
a side. Here, Joseph, I’m not less glad of 
thee, lad, but we’ve had our talk out on the 
voyage over. You’ll give way to these 
others.” 

“Joseph always gives way to others when 
’tis well to do so,” spoke up Dorothy. “ He’s 
the most generous lad in the world, save — 

“ Save one, eh ? Ah, yes, we’ve a nodding, 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


3 ” 


admiring company. But, here, where are you 
taking me ? ” 

“ To Jacob Taylor's.” 

“To Jon Jonson’s,” cried Dorothy and 
Jasper, in a breath. 

“I’m to be divided then, like the brat they 
brought before Solomon,” said the Squire. 
“ Nay, will I. Here I stand before you shall 
bear me off piecemeal.” 

“Thou wilt be more comfortable at Jacob 
Taylor’s, where they have more room,” 
s uggested Dorothy, looking deprecatingly at 
Jasper. 

“ But Jon Jonson’s is nearer,” protested 
Jasper. 

“Good reasons both, but where am I the 
most welcome ? ” quoth the Squire. Assurances 
on both sides were so ready that he declared it 
was a toss-up. But at sight of Dorothy’s plead- 
ing eyes Jasper said, “ I give up, sir. Let Dolly 
have thee in keeping. ’Twill be easier for me 
to run in and see thee than for her.” 

“ Right courteously spoken, lad, I like thee 
for the decision, and to Jacob Taylor’s will I 

g°” 

“Truly, here is a kind and hospitable people,” 
declared the Squire the next day, as Dorothy 


312 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


and Jasper sat one on each side of him on Jacob 
Taylor’s wide porch. “ And ’ tis a goodly coun- 
try. After John Winterthorn’s account I was 
prepared to find it so, but not to this extent. 
One might do worse than settle here.” 

“ So say I,” returned Jasper. 

“ And that is your intention, eh ? ” 

“Yes, sir, if one difficulty can be over- 
come, otherwise I care not where I go.” 

“ Hey ! Hey ! What’s this? Speak out, lad. 
What’s amiss?” 

“ A promise of Dolly’s to her mother, that 
she would not marry out of meeting ; or at least 
that she would not marry without the consent 
of her guardian.” 

“And who’s her guardian, I’d like to 
know?” Down came the Squire’s stick. “Who 
but her Uncle Humphrey? Without her guar- 
dian’s consent, forsooth! Whom else could 
Mistress Hester have meant?” 

“We thought her husband, Benjamin Taylor.” 

“Humph!” the Squire flouted the idea. 
“ Hester left nothing of her own ; nothing of 
any account. I’ve stood instead of Marmaduke 
James for this girl since she was born. Am I 
like to let the Quakers oust me ? Do you want 
another guardian, Dolly? ” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


313 


“Nay, nay, sir.” 

“Then, see here, my lass, I’m your legal 
guardian, deny it who will, and I forbid you to 
marry any other than your promised swain, 
Jasper Preston — d’ye hear?” 

It was so like his old tone that Dorothy 
smiled, but she was not quite satisfied. 

“I was ready to become a Quaker for 
Dolly’s sake,” Jasper informed him. 

“You were, eh?” The Squire laughed. 
“And why are you not?” 

“ They wouldn’t take me, unless ’twas from 
a free convincement.” 

“Would not?” the Squire stared, then 
lapsed into thought. “ I tell you what, lad,” he 
said, after a time, “ I’ll see this, Benjamin Tay- 
lor, to-morrow. I am still Dolly’s guardian, 
but we may come to terms on this question 
eh Dolly?” 

She looked down with a troubled face, but 
said nothing. She well knew the society of 
Friends would never countenance her marriage 
with one of the world’s people. 

“ It’s a ridiculous notion,” broke out the 
Squire, “and one that in a new country or an 
old one, either, for that matter, will do much to 
abolish their sect altogether, if they keep it up. 


3H THY FRIEND DOROTHY 

Mark my words, William Penn’s descendants 
will yet marry out of meeting, as they call it, 
and like as not become church people. A 
truce to such a silly custom as this they hold.” 

When the Squire returned from his first 
trip to Philadelphia it was with a piece of news, 
which surprised Dorothy. “ I find your step- 
father means to take to himself another wife,” 
he told her. “ A connection of his, so he 
informed me.” 

“ Another wife ? ” said Dorothy. “It has 
not yet been a year since my mother died.” 

“ Yes, so said Mr. Taylor, but he finds it 
ill for a man to be alone in this country. His 
sister’s husband has returned, and the worthy 
Benjamin will need a housekeeper. The society 
of Friends do not allow less than a year to 
elapse before re-marrying, but I think he will 
not wait beyond that time.” 

“ And whom does he wed ? ” 

“ One Hannah — something Copperthwaite. 
Satterly, is it ? ” 

“ Hannah Satterthwaite, his sister’s step- 
daughter.” Dorothy looked distressed and 
annoyed. 

“You like her not ? ” 

“ We have nothing in common, but she is a 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


3i5 


good woman. She will make an excellent 
wife.” 

“ Shall you like living with them ? ” the 
Squire asked, slyly. 

Dorothy shrank away, “ Oh, no.” 

“ Oh, my Dolly, then there’s nothing left 
but to run away with your old uncle, who loves 
you right well. We’ll go back to England, 
Dolly, and you shall be married in the old 
church, and go to Gray Towers for your honey- 
moon, and as long as you will shall you stay 
there. Then, if it please you and Jasper to 
return, I’ll wish you God-speed. I see nothing 
else for you ; and listen, my lass, it’s my private 
opinion that your mother wouldn’t be averse 
to such a proceeding, for she well knew who 
was your guardian.” 

“Ah, uncle, if I could but think that.” 

“ You’d go back, would you ? ” 

“Oh, I would, gladly, if I were sure she 
would not be grieved.” 

“And cut adrift from the Quakers?” 

“I cannot say that. I love the Quak- 
ers well.” Then she looked up as if half 
ashamed of making the confession. “ But I can 
never cease loving our dear church and its 
service.” 


316 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


“ Aha ! Then you’ll not persist in deceiving 
these Quakers by pretending to be one of 
them.” 

“ Oh, do I deceive ? ” 

“That’s what it amounts to ; and now, my 
lass, I have to tell you that I, too, have a letter 
written by your mother not long before she 
died. She says, among other things : ‘Should 
my husband marry again, and should such a 
proceeding be to the grief and unhappiness of 
my daughter, let her know that I do not insist 
that she remain with Benjamin. Thou wilt, I 
know, as her guardian, give her a home, and if 
she marry with thine consent 1 shall be satisfied, 
for well I know thine intentions towards her are 
good, and now that 1 near another world I seem 
to see clearly that pure religion does not will 
the unhappiness of those we love for a mere 
matter of external profession.’ ” 

The tears were trickling down Dorothy’s 
cheeks, but as her uncle opened his arms she 
went to him and clasped him around the neck. 
“ There, my poppet ; my dear little lass, ’tis all 
right, is it not?” he said. 

“ Oh, it is.” 

“And thou wilt come home with me? ” 

“That will I, gladly.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


317 


“And be married after a while in the 
church? ” 

“Yes, if thou dost so desire — and Jasper?” 

“ Jasper knows it all. He was wrought with 
anxiety, and went to Philadelphia with me. I 
bade him give me a quiet hour with thee, but 
I’ll warrant he's somewhere within call this 
moment. There, no more thanks, my Dolli- 
kins. You do love your old uncle ? ” 

“Oh, uncle ; thou knowest it.” 

“And have missed him times untold?” 

“I have, and longed greatly for thee.” 

“ I knew it ! I knew it ! ” 

And then the door opened, and in came 
Jasper, brave in a suit of new clothes with all 
the finery allowable, decking his handsome 
figure. A glad, proud, exultant look was on 
his face, as he ran to Dorothy and knelt at her 
side kissing her hand with almost timid def- 
erence. Now that he was so sure he was 
very humble. 

The Squire eyed them fondly, but he said, 
as if provoked, “ Who bade thee interrupt us, 
sirrah ? ” 

“The hour was up, sir. You bade me wait 
but an hour.” 

“ Full sixty minutes, and the last twice full 


3i3 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


of as many seconds, I’ll warrant. Oh, the 
impatience of these younglings. Where is 
Joseph? I’m right loath to leave that lad.” 

“ He’ll be here anon. He has affairs which 
seem to make him linger. If I mistake not, 
you’ll have another grandniece before many 
months.” 

“ Oh, who ? ” cried Dorothy ; “ not Tina ! 
Oh, Jasper, do you mean Tina ! Oh, the sly pair. 
So that was why Tina would not praise him to 
me, nor confess she missed him over much.” 

Jasper nodded. He had risen to his feet, 
and stood before the girl with a happy face. 
“ Am I not fine, Dolly ? To-day I am of age, 
and this is thy uncle’s present to me. Art not 
proud of me ? ” 

“ Not prouder than before of thy dingy 
sailor garb,” she declared. 

The Squire heard her and laughed. “ What 
of those acres, Jasper ? ” 

“ All well, sir. Joseph and I have been over 
them. We like the tract right well.” He caught 
Dorothy’s hands and swung them joyously. 
“We’re to be neighbors, Dolly. Joseph and 
Tina, you and I. Uncle here has given us each 
a tract apiece ; side by side they lie, and after a 
while I shall build a house with my own money.” 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


319 


“ Dost like my wedding present, my lass ? ” 
askq^l her uncle, pinching her cheek. 

“Oh, uncle, ’tis a great and fine one. I 
thank thee more than ever.” 

“ ’Twas no more than fair after near spoiling 
the prospects of all three of you. My boy will 
not miss anything, and I shall feel more content.” 

“ And Dolly, I have been talking to James 
Sanderland, and he tells me that a clause in 
the Governor’s grant sets forth a hope that the 
Church of England may at some day be stab- 
lished in Philadelphia, for it declares that when 
twenty persons shall be so minded they are 
not to be opposed. That encourages me to 
good belief in our future,” Jasper told her. 

“’Tis not as if we parted for long,” said 
Dorothy to Aunt Ruth, as she stood ready to 
sail for England, “for I shall return within a 
year. Jasper will not content himself to live an 
idle life.” 

“ I cannot feel content to have thee marry 
out of meeting,” said Benjamin Taylor, “ but 1 
wish thee well, my daughter.” 

“ I am afraid I should do the same were 1 
in thy place,” whispered Aunt Ruth, as she 
kissed her good-bye. 

“ Silas Price has been moved to go and 


3 20 


THY FRIEND DOROTHY 


preach elsewhere,” Aunt Jane told her, with 
reproach in her tones. 

“ He is a blessed good man,” replied Doro- 
thy, fervently. “God's mercy go with him.” 

Mrs. Satterthwaite opened her mouth as if 
to speak further, but thought better of it, and 
that was the last Dorothy heard of Silas. 

Once again Dorothy stood within the old 
familiar home. John Winterthorn, Cousin 
Frances with the young heir of Humphrey’s 
Hall, were loud in their welcomes. The Squire 
caught his boy in his arms ; Jasper’s mother 
held him close, while old John fairly shed tears 
at sight of Dorothy. 

Later on there was a quiet little wedding in 
the old church, and, as Jasper had so often 
desired, the two spent long happy days at Gray 
Towers. But at the end of three months once 
more they bade adieu to old England and with 
brave, loving, happy hearts turned their faces 
to the free country of their adoption, where if 
hardships and trials met them so, too, did peace, 
content and prosperity at last fill their days. 









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